


The Rules of Engagement

by denisemp



Series: Bumbling Towards Ecstacy [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9547139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denisemp/pseuds/denisemp
Summary: This is a sequel to my previous story, "Forgive and Forget."  You may not necessarily have to read that one to understand this, but I'd be very pleased if you did.Sherlock and Molly take the next step, with a bit of "help" from their friends and family.  What could go wrong?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys. I'm posting the prologue for my new story! Part of the same series as Forgive and Forget. Hope you enjoy! I can't promise to post chapters in the same manic fashion, but they will come!
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes belong to yours truly. I own nothing!

Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes stood, side by side, at the front of the small and drafty village church. The group gathered was very small, but smartly dressed. None more so than the two Holmes brothers, who were in morning suits, slicked up and shiny, and looking very handsome indeed!

Oddly enough, it was the stoic Mr. Holmes-the-elder who was the much more nervous of the two. As he prided himself on his sang-froid, this was a bit embarrassing. Was he…sweating? Oh Lord! He looked down at himself. Not a wrinkle or crease. Good. He abhorred wrinkles of any kind. He only hoped he wasn’t displaying any unsightly perspiration!

Mycroft felt a slight nudge from beside him. Sherlock. “Calm. Down.”

“I'm perfectly calm!” Mycroft snapped.

“No you’re not,” Sherlock replied, in an amused voice. The tosser! “You look like a maiden in one of those old films you favor, one who’s about to be tied to the railroad tracks by the mustache-twirling villain. I think you might swoon.”

Mycroft gritted his teeth. How his brother could remain so oblivious to the serious nature of the morning’s proceedings was a wonder! When had Sherlock become the grown-up in this relationship? It was not to be borne! Mycroft took a steadying breath, which admittedly sounded a bit ragged, even to his own ears. It was as hot as blazes in here! His cravat was choking the life out of him. 

“Well, if you do, don’t expect me to catch you,” Sherlock added. “The vicar will have to come to your rescue. I’m very busy at the moment.”

“Busy being an arsehole,” replied Mycroft, then looked to the vicar apologetically. That gentleman, of advanced years, and very slight stature, simply raised his eyebrows, his message clear. If you go down, my dear boy, you’re on your own.

Suddenly the church organ started up.

“Finally!” exclaimed Sherlock. “Here we go.”

The brothers turned toward the back of the church. The small crowd that was gathered were on their feet.

And then…suddenly….there she was. An absolute angel in a smart cream-colored suit and fetching little hat with a bit of a veil, holding a bouquet of blush colored roses, and making her way down the aisle toward them.

“Ah,” Mycroft said. “So she did show up after-all.”

Sherlock chuckled at this. “Did you doubt it? Was that the reason you were so over-wrought?”

“Don't be ridiculous" scoffed Mycroft, "I’ve never felt better in my life, brother-mine." He stepped forward to receive the hand of his bride, Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. Soon to be Lady Elizabeth Holmes.

********************

The happy group gathered at the home of the groom’s parents for a brief celebration, before the newly married couple were off on their honeymoon, destination unknown. Mycroft had been supremely secretive, even for him, and Sherlock suspected that the only people who knew the couple’s true plans were Mycroft’s assistant, the incomparable Anthea, and Mrs. Hudson, who you couldn’t keep a secret from to save your life. No one was talking, however, and Sherlock wasn’t interested enough to put the effort in to coerce either of them. His brother’s sex holiday was his own business. The words Mycroft and sex in the same sentence wasn’t something he wanted bandying about in his brain, nor did he want any images popping up at odd, inconvenient moments. There wasn’t enough alcohol in all of London.

Mycroft had insisted on a tiny gathering for his wedding day, and had agreed only to champagne and cake, no formal wedding breakfast. “I want to be married, and alone with my bride, not gadding about with you lot!” This was heartily agreed to by Sherlock and Mycroft’s parents. The senior Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were still getting over the shock that their eldest son was actually getting married. To a woman. They were so overjoyed at the prospect, that they would have happily agreed to cheese-on-toast and pints at the Bowl-A-Rama (Greg’s suggestion) if that was what Mycroft had deemed his “dream” reception.

Lady Elizabeth had no living relations, nor had she and Lord Smallwood had children. She declared herself “quite alone in the world, until Mike came along.” So, it was Mycroft’s friends and family that were seeing them off on their first journey as a married couple. Attending were the Holmes family (minus Eurus for obvious reasons), John Watson and Rosie (in an adorable frilly pink dress and tights that had taken them almost an hour to stuff her into, until Molly had thrown them out of the room and taken over), Molly Hooper (in a cheerful tangerine dress - she called it apricot, but really! with a few frills and a matching bow for her hair), Greg Lestrade (very smart in a dark suit with only a few creases), Anthea Jones (in a racy black cocktail number that had Greg’s tongue hanging to the floor when he’d first spotted her), and Mrs. Hudson (in a shimmery gold dress and a ridiculously huge hat). 

Mrs. Hudson considered Lady Elizabeth her "dear, dear friend," and had exclaimed and sobbed loudly into her handkerchief throughout the entire ceremony, garnering dark looks from the groom.

However, the fact that Lady Elizabeth and Mrs. Hudson had become as thick-as-thieves over the past few months seemed to bother Mycroft not a jot. A dangerous miscalculation to Sherlock’s mind, but, then again, it would probably prove to be high on the entertainment scale, so he kept his gob shut and his advice to himself.

Sherlock was feeling rather odd to tell the truth. He was quite happy for his brother, of course, though his choice of wife was a bit dubious. However, it could not be denied that Mycroft and Lady Elizabeth were supremely happy together, and despite a bit of a rocky start to the courtship, which had involved Mrs. Hudson’s usual shenanigans and Mycroft being forced to wear a "bad-boy" outfit straight out of a 1990’s teen rom-com, they had managed to court, engage themselves, and marry in a particularly efficient manner.

Sherlock WAS happy for him, so what was this sharp pinching feeling in his chest? Why did his stomach feel so leaden? Perhaps the cake was off?

He looked across the room and spotted his brother and his new wife, standing very close together, the lady’s arm comfortably crossed with Mycroft’s while they chatted happily with his parents.

He saw John, tossing little Rosie in the air, making her pink dress flutter around her, then catching her and kissing her cheek, causing both the child, and Mrs. Hudson, who stood close by watching, to erupt in merry laughter.

He saw Molly. His beautiful Molly. Glowing in her orange (apricot!) dress, cheeks flushed, standing with Greg and Anthea, happily chatting and, from Sherlock’s point of view, shamelessly encouraging a flirtation between the two. Greg said something (inane to be sure) that caused Anthea to throw her head back and laugh uproariously. Molly caught Sherlock’s eye and winked, giving him a huge grin and a surreptitious thumbs up.

Sherlock returned the gesture (though honestly he thought Anthea would probably eat Greg for lunch), then turned his gaze back toward his brother and his new wife. He caught the flash of the new Lady Holmes’ wedding ring gleaming in the bright morning light.

He felt that sharp pinch again. His stomach lurched. And all of a sudden he knew what he was feeling. 

Envy.


	2. Black Velvet Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two. A bit more set-up. Next chapter the boys are back and planning a new mission!
> 
> I have no idea what Sherlock's parents' first names are. I've seen many great ideas in various stories, but being lazy, I named them after Benedict's parents, who played them so hilariously on the show!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Thanks for continuing on in this series with me. 
> 
> The only thing I own are my mistakes!

Sherlock crept quietly down the steps of his childhood home. After the excitement of the day, he found himself restless and unable to sleep, which was vexing. He had insomnia much less often these days, which he attributed to frequent intercourse, and the comfort of Molly’s warm body beside him in bed. A combination of these things had a soporific effect, in the extreme! On the nights he spent with Molly, he almost always rested for at least six hours. A miracle!

When Sherlock slept alone, he inevitably had nights when he couldn’t get his brain to shut off. When this occurred, he had learned that there was nothing for it but to rise and do something to keep himself occupied, such as working on his various experiments, playing his violin, or sometimes amusing himself by posting derisive comments on John’s blog. Poor John still had no idea that his staunchest critic, and arch rival on the internet, WnkrN@hat1978!, was, in reality, Sherlock Holmes himself. John was convinced that it was Mycroft, which was a hilarious bonus. 

Sherlock attributed the restlessness this particular evening to the day’s events. Seeing his confirmed-bachelor brother off into connubial bliss had been unsettling, and it had left Sherlock feeling a bit off-balance and contemplative. 

Sherlock had slipped out quietly, so as not to disturb Molly, who was curled up in his childhood bed, quite asleep, her long hair spread out on the pillow, her breathing soft and steady. He was making his way to the kitchen, thinking to get himself a cup of tea and some biscuits, and to attempt to decide what to do about the fact that he never wanted to sleep alone ever again, or to share a bed with anyone but Molly Hooper.

As his foot hit the landing, he was surprised to see light coming from the front room. It had to be either Mummy or Father, as all the other guests had departed earlier in the evening. John, Rosie and Mrs. Hudson back to Baker Street in one of Mycroft’s cars, and Greg and Anthea back to London in her smart little sports car. Sherlock spared a thought for Greg, and sincerely hoped he knew what he was getting himself into there. He had recognized all too well the wolfish look in Greg’s eye. Poor man. Anthea was known to be a bit of a man-eater, and Greg, despite his roguish persona, was an amateur compared to anyone in Mycroft’s employ. He would have to keep an eye on that.

Sherlock made his way toward the light coming from the parlor, and saw that both his parents were still awake. They were sitting, side by side, in their chairs by the fire, holding hands in a companionable silence. Sherlock had always known that his parents were very much in love. Embarrassingly so. As an adolescent they had continuously humiliated him with their public displays of affection. He had, at the time, been horrified that were close to forty and still snogging each other senseless! He had found this revolting and quite juvenile. Now he knew that they were supremely lucky. 

“Hullo?” he called as he entered the room. “Okay?”

His parents both turned to look at him. His mother’s eyes, the blue/green eyes he himself had inherited, lit up at the sight of him. “Oh. Sherlock, darling! Everything is wonderful. Your father and I just couldn’t get to sleep. Still all atwitter about the day. It was so lovely.”

“Come sit down, son.” his father offered, gesturing to another chair by the fire. “keep your old Mum and Dad company for a bit.”

Sherlock entered the room, but eschewed the chair, choosing instead to sit himself cross-legged on the floor, facing his parents, his back warmed by the fire. This was very similar to what he remembered doing as a boy, after tea, when the family would gather in this very room, his parents engaged in their books and newspapers, and he and Mycroft with games or schoolwork. He found this to be a surprisingly happy memory. 

“Couldn’t sleep, dear?” asked his mother.

Sherlock shrugged.

“Your mother and I couldn’t settle down to it either.” His father explained. “Too much excitement, I suppose. Imagine. Mycroft married! To a woman!”

“Timothy!” admonished Mrs. Holmes.

“What!?” replied Mr. Holmes, with a little grin at his wife, and a sidelong look at Sherlock. “I’m not casting aspersions, Wanda. I just always assumed he was…”

“Asexual, like a fungi?” offered Sherlock chuckling.

His father joined in. 

“Oh you two!” cried Mrs. Holmes in a scolding tone. “Leave poor Mikey alone. He’s always been just a bit…slow on the uptake when it comes to relationships with…humans. A late bloomer. He was simply waiting for the right woman to come along. Someone as…as…”

“Machiavellian and deceitful as himself?” Sherlock finished for her.

Mrs. Holmes huffed, but the corners of her mouth turned up. “Why can’t you sleep darling? Everything alright with Molly?”

“Molly is perfect, Mummy," Sherlock said grinning, then expounded, “angelic, brilliant, caring, delicious, extraordinary, flawless, generous, heavenly, intelligent, jolly, kind, likable, magnificent, nurturing, obliging, pretty, quirky, radiant, sweet, talented, understanding, virtuous, wonderful, xenodochial, yar and zesty.” 

His parents both burst out laughing. 

“You haven’t done that in years!” his father said fondly. “I still remember the day when you finally made it all the way to Z insulting Mycroft. You were so proud.”

That was a good day. Zaftig! Mycroft had a rather voluptuous figure in those days.

“How did you and Father become engaged?” Sherlock asked, seemingly out of the blue. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard the story.”

His parents looked at each other, then turned back to Sherlock, and his mother offered, “Sherlock, your father and I met at University, you know that.”

“Yes. yes. I’ve heard all that. But how did you become engaged to be married? How did Father ask you?”

HIs parents exchanged another look. What the devil?

“Well, Sherlock,” his father began, “your Dad was a bit unoriginal, I’m afraid. Took her to a lovely beach, got down on one knee…the usual way, I expect.”

“A beach.” Sherlock said musingly. Molly liked the beach. Molly’s skin freckled very becomingly in the sun. He pictured Molly, her beautiful hair blowing around her in the salty air. Wearing a bikini. “Where was this?”

“Oh,” his mother said waving her free hand. “South of France, I believe. It was so long ago, I hardly remember.” She gave a little laugh. An uncomfortable little laugh.

An appalling thought occurred to Sherlock. “It was a nudist beach, wasn’t it?”

“Sherlock!” his mother exclaimed. “It’s naturist, NOT nudist. Really!”

Oh. My. God. “Oh my god!”

“It was LOVELY,” his mother insisted. “Very freeing and open. It was the sixties! Why even your grandmother…”

Sherlock held up his hand to stop that little story from continuing. “No. Thank you very much. That’s all I need to hear. It’s bad enough imaging you and Father …dangling about. I don’t need an image of grand-mama…”

“We were much firmer back then,” offered his father, looking amused.

“No, really,” Sherlock insisted. “Please don’t go on.”

Another thought occurred to him. He looked at his father. “Where did you hide the ring?”

His father chortled. “Funny story that…”

Sherlock rose to his feet. “I’ll just be off to bed then.”

“Sherlock, wait!” His mother jumped up as well, disengaging from her husband. “Sit back down for a moment. I have something for you.” 

Sherlock reluctantly sat back down, while his mother bustled out of the room.

He eyed his father.

“Are you sure you don’t want to hear…”

“No. Thank. You.”

“You and your brother. Such puritans. I have no idea where you came from,” his father teased.

“Despite much evidence to the contrary, I’m beginning to believe we were left on the doorstep.” Sherlock replied sourly.

His mother came back into the room, clutching something in her hand. 

She sat back down, on her husband’s lap this time, both his arms encircled her waist. “I’ve been saving this. I never thought Mycroft would need it, and besides it’s really not his style at all, but…well, I want you to have it now.”

She held her hand out to Sherlock. In her palm was a black velvet box.

“Go on Sherlock,” his mother said with a kind smile and suspiciously wet eyes.

He took the box.

“Well,” thought Sherlock, taking a deep breath, “at least I can be fairly sure it’s not French ticklers.”

He pried open the lid of the box with his thumb. Nestled inside was a ring. No. It was more than a ring. It was a work of art. It was white gold, with a center-mounted inset stone that flashed blue, then green in the firelight. London Topaz? The ring was plain of any other adornments, except for fine scrollwork along the band. Flowers and vines. It was simple and beautiful, obviously old and hand crafted. 

Sherlock heard his mother’s voice speaking, but he had a hard time pulling his eyes away from the ring.

“It was your grandmother’s. My father gave it to her after I was born. Said the color reminded him of her eyes. Which I inherited…and so did you.”

Sherlock nodded, and swallowed a lump the size of a football. “Thank you .”

Sherlock stood suddenly, closing the box with a snap. “I..think I can sleep now.”

Her parents just nodded at him, still smiling. 

Sherlock came forward suddenly, bending, and swiftly kissed his mother on the cheek. He hesitated for a moment, then did the same to his very surprised father. “

“Goodnight Mummy. Father.” And then he was off, back up the stairs, trying to think of a safe hiding place, clutching Molly Hooper’s engagement ring in his hand.

********************

Back in the parlor, Mrs. Holmes sat perched on her husband’s lap, his arms around her waist, their heads pressed together.

“Do you know what this means Timothy?” Mrs. Holmes whispered to her husband.

“We’re going to have another wedding to plan,” her husband replied, sighing. “And don’t think Sherlock will let us get away with that cake and champagne business, either. I’m picturing a full orchestra , a French chef, and a garden packed with criminals, drug-addicts and bobbies…though actually, that sounds like it could be a bit of alright.”

His wife snorted. “Not that you great oaf. That darling girl, our Molly, is only thirty-four-years-old. There are good breeding years left there! Have you seen her hips?!”

“Wanda!” Mr. Holmes exclaimed, scandalized. “You really can’t be talking about the poor girl like she’s a cow, you know. “

His wife tilted her eyes to his and gave him a chastened look. 

“At least not where Sherlock can hear you. We’ll never get grandchildren that way! Reverse psychology my dear, how many times do I have to tell you? Act like you couldn’t care less, and I’ll guarantee you she’ll be up the duff by this time next year!”

********************

Sherlock tip-toed carefully back into his room and listened. He could hear Molly’s deep even breathing. Good! Still asleep. 

He went to his valise, and pushed the velvet box deep inside, into a remote pocket. Safe for now then. He’d have to find a better hiding place once he got back to 221B. His sock drawer? Molly sometimes went in there though, if her feet were cold. The freezer? Unlikely, but you never knew if she’d get the urge to thaw out the eyeballs or thumbs he kept on hand for experiments. Maybe he could give it to Mrs. Hudson for safe keeping. That would mean letting her in on things though, and that could be dangerous. She was a tremendous ally when called upon, but she was also a complete nutter, and tended to take matters into her own hands if she became impatient. He would think on it a bit more.

He shed his dressing gown and slid into bed beside Molly, the sheets deliciously warm from her body. Once he was settled, she nestled back into him, as she always did, and sighed a bit in her sleep. Yes. This is what he wanted. Every night. For the rest of his life.

Molly wriggled a bit and mumbled in her sleep, something that sounded like, “No you nodcock, you need to spread the ribs farther.” Sherlock went still, and she seemed to settle back down.

How would he do it? Get down on one knee? Hire a skywriter? Should he compose a sonnet or a concerto? It had to be something wonderful and perfect. He was Sherlock Holmes and this was Molly Hooper and it had to be spectacular! He supposed he would need to ask for some assistance from his friends. 

God help him.


	3. Rings, and things, and fine array

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are back in town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The troops are gathering...
> 
> Closet Johnlock fans, don't say I never did anything for ye!
> 
> Oh, and there's some Shakespeare in there to class things up!
> 
> All mistakes belong to yours truly. I own nothing. I need a raise.

Two weeks later...

Sherlock paced 221B, muttering to himself. “I must get it out of here.”

“I’m going mad!” He looked down at the object clutched in his hand. A little back velvet box that contained all his hopes for the future.  


“You are driving me round the bend!” he yelled at the box, shaking it in his fist. The box did not reply. It was mocking him. Its silent…blackness giving Sherlock the velvet box version of the two fingered salute.

For the past two weeks Sherlock had been in what Mrs. Hudson would call “a flutter, Sherlock, really! Just like a nervous school boy about to wee his pants!”

No matter where he hid the blasted thing, Molly seemed to gravitate toward that part of the flat. Under the bed, she got a sudden urge to hoover. In between the cushions of the sofa, it was time to cuddle up there and read a novel. In the loo, she had a constant urge to relieve herself. In the oven, she wanted to make a batch of biscuits in honor of Mycroft’s return from his sex holiday! He was a nervous wreck, and found himself following Molly from place to place, until she banned him from being within five feet of her lest she, “punch you in the bloody nose, Sherlock! Really, you’re breathing down my neck. Go detect something!”

He had to get the dratted object out of the flat or he would never have any peace. Or intercourse ever again, Molly was that cross with him.

Sherlock had considered trusting Mrs. Hudson with the ring, but had been talked out of this idea by the lady herself. He had gone to tea in 221A one afternoon, planning on broaching the subject. But, during the course of fifteen minutes, Mrs. Hudson had misplaced her eyeglasses, the tea ball, the article from the Times she wanted to show him, and the knitting she had begun for a blanket for Rosie. “Really, I don’t know where my mind is at! If my head wasn’t attached, well, let’s just say you’d be talking to a torso right now, wouldn’t you? You know, my late husband had an Uncle with a head that was ever so small. Uncle Pinny they called him, though I think his proper name was Eugene. Well, he was quite nice, but a bit difficult to look at, let me tell you. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Marvelous dancer though. Very graceful. Now, where are those glasses? I was reading the Times. Oh dear. Maybe in the loo? I hope I haven’t flushed them again. They were terribly dear. Don’t get old Sherlock, or at least don’t get bifocals. Those obstetricians are no better than robbers. Maybe some sherry instead of the tea? I’m sure I’ve sent that ball down the disposal again.” As he didn’t want Molly’s engagement ring to be flushed down the toilet or chewed up in the disposal, Sherlock thought better of this plan.

There was only one thing for it. John Watson. Trustworthy, that was John.

********************

Sherlock knocked on the door of 221C. He heard a muffled, “Come!” from inside, and let himself in. “John?”

“Putting Rosie down for a nap, be out in a tic,” came the reply from the back of the flat. Sherlock squeezed the ring box and paced John’s flat. It was a nice change of scenery. He noticed John’s laptop out on the table and made his way over to it. The blog! He glanced at it. John had recently completed posting, “The Case of the Hungry Boa Constrictor.” Barely a five. But, since cases involving a pet boa constrictor being fed a murder weapon didn’t come along every day, Sherlock could hardly blame John for posting it. He looked down to the comments section to make sure that WnkrN@hat1978!’s scathing commentary had been read and appreciated. As it happened John was in the middle of composing a retort that began with, “My Dear excrement-head, and continued on to question the commentor’s parentage, insult his personal hygiene and disparage his bedroom prowess. Oh John was hot under the collar. Brilliant!

John came out from the back room. “She’s that tuckered out the poor thing. She’s crawling like a champ though. Had to chase her around the room for ten minutes before I could corral her for her nap.” He chuckled at this. “You should see her go!”

Sherlock had observed this phenomenon already, of course. He was following his goddaughter’s developmental milestones quite closely, and had charts and graphs dedicated to the very subject, which he would present to her at some time in the future. Perhaps her wedding! She was a very interesting specimen, though he would never refer to her as such again, since it seemed to annoy both John and Molly to differing degrees. Rosie Watson was above average in every category! She did have a disgusting tendency to stick any object that she put her hand to into her gob, including her own feet, and she laughed and cried for no apparent reason whatsoever that Sherlock could discern. However, since this was much like her father, he put it down to genetic pre-disposition.

John observed Sherlock reading the blog. “Can you believe it? You'd think Mycroft would have something better to do on his honeymoon than muddle about on my blog, the plonker.”

“Mmmmmmm.” Sherlock replied, hiding a smile. “Probably bored. I can’t image he and Lady Elizabeth are off parasailing or riding donkeys, or whatever one does on a sex holiday.”

John eyed him. “Remind me to help you plan your own honeymoon, if you ever get there.”

And there was his opening.

“Speaking of that, John,” Sherlock held his hand out and presented John with the horrid little black velvet box. It seemed to be straining toward John, much like Rosie did, screaming, “Take me! Take me! Get me away from this lunatic before he ruins everything!”

John looked at the box, then at Sherlock. Box. Sherlock. Box. Sherlock. 

“What’s this then?”

Sherlock pried open the lid and held it out for him to see.

John was absolutely stunned silent. For a moment. Then, “but this is so sudden! Aren’t you even going to get down on one knee?”

How he hated him sometimes. “John!”

John came toward him and took a closer look at the ring. “I don’t bloody believe it! Are you serious?”

Sherlock snapped the box closed. “Of course I’m serious.”

John grabbed him by both arms. “Do you know what this means!?”

Sherlock thought it was fairly obvious what it meant, but this was John, and he could be a bit thick at times, so he asked, “what?”

John released Sherlock, and threw his arms up in the air, doing a little jig around his front room. It was an abomination. John had no sense of rhythm at all. “It means I’m free! Free, free, free! You’ll be Molly’s responsibility now. Molly will have to fetch your phone. Molly will have to clean the gastric juices from your fridge. Molly will have to listen to you whinge about toilet paper that dispenses from underneath the roll rather than from the top. I’m free!” He punctuated his dance with a leap in the air, and came down with a loud bang. God, he must have gained three kilos! Sherlock would really have to tell Molly no more biscuits for John!

“John, quiet! You’ll wake Rosie!”

“Oh this is the dog’s bollocks! This is spectacular! Amazing! I could kiss you! I will! I will kiss you! On the lips! Come here you gorgeous thing!” John held his arms out, and Sherlock began backing up. John had clearly gone round the bend! Completely off his nut. He started advancing on Sherlock. “Just one little kiss!”

He wasn’t stopping! Now Sherlock was getting nervous. “John, stop it!”

Suddenly, John darted forward and grabbed Sherlock. He began to try and force Sherlock’s head down to his. “Come here you! Give me those cupid’s bows!”

“Geroff!” Sherlock began to fight in earnest, twisting himself this way and that, trying to protect his virtue!

John tried to get him into a headlock, while making disgusting smacking noises.

Sherlock was ready for this, and managed to get his much longer leg around John’s, trying to bring the man to the ground. This maneuver worked, but unfortunately for Sherlock, John didn’t let him go, and they both went crashing to the linoleum, Sherlock landing on his back, arms splayed, John right on top of him, knocking the wind out of him.

John grabbed Sherlock’s face in both hands and declared “I love you, you maniac!” Then his lips crashed down on Sherlock’s, and he kissed him. Hard! 

And this, of course, was the moment that the door flew open, and Mrs. Hudson burst into the flat.

********************

“What the devil is going on in here!!!?”

John and Sherlock froze, lips still pressed together. It took approximately 2.5 seconds for Sherlock to realize that not only was he caught in an extremely compromising position by a woman who had for years been convinced that he and John were a couple, but that he was still clutching a very obvious ring box in one hand “Must hide ring,” he mumbled against John’s lips. It came out sounding more like “mssthighrg,” but John seemed to get the message. He rolled off Sherlock and jumped to stand in front of him. Sherlock brushed off his clothes, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and pushed around John to get to his landlady. As he did this, he handed the box off to John.

“Now Mrs. Hudson, this isn’t what it looks like.”

“What kind of idiot do you take me for Sherlock Holmes? I mean really! The idea! And Molly so lovely and devoted to you.” She peered around Sherlock at John, who had stuffed the ring box in his trouser pocket.

“And you John! Shame on you! I know it’s been very hard since our dear Mary passed, but you had your chance with Sherlock years ago. If he’d been interested, I really think things would have worked out then. Not healthy to be carrying a torch. And you were a bit forceful, I must say. Didn’t anyone teach you that No means No? Though maybe Sherlock likes that kind of thing.” 

She turned to Sherlock.

“Is that the problem? Molly not quite able to Top you? She is very petite. I really wish you would have come to me instead of resorting to this. I have a pair of spiked boots and paddle that would do a treat!”

Back to John.

“My friend Alice’s nephew, Trevor, might be just your bag of crisps, John. Lovely boy! Not quite the looker our Sherlock is, but he has his own business. A florist! I know that sounds very stereophonic, but I don’t judge! In any case, he and his partner just split up. I’m going to give her a ring, shall I? Set you up? “

John opened his mouth to speak, but she prattled on. “No, don’t thank me! It’s the least I can do. I know how hard it is, after all, being alone. Going without can make one a bit barmy, I always say. Don’t know what I’d do without my little mother’s helper. What you need is a good…“

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock finally bellowed, knowing anything less and she would continue to merrily waffle along.

“Yes, Sherlock dear?”

“John was not making a pass at me, I assure you.”

Mrs. Hudson looked from John to Sherlock. “He was kissing you, but he wasn’t making a pass at you?” She made a scoffing noise which clearly meant, “pull the other one.”

John stepped forward. “No, no, of course not Mrs. H. Aside from the fact that I am not, nor have I ever been gay, or in love with Sherlock for that matter, I would never do such a thing to Molly. She’s one my best friends.”

“Hmmmmm,” said Mrs. Watson giving John a suspicious look. She turned to Sherlock, “and this isn’t one of those ménage thingees?”

“Definitely not.”

“Well then,” Mrs. Hudson said, crossing her arms at her chest, suddenly projecting the air of a seasoned solicitor, “explain.”

“Well,” said John, “Sherlock and I were…”

“Rehearsing.” Sherlock interrupted.

John looked at him, brows raised. Sherlock returned the look. “Go with it!” his eyes demanded. John sighed, and went with it. “Yes, right, of course. Rehearsing.”

“Rehearsing for what?” Mrs. Hudson said skeptically, “an adult film?”

Sherlock guffawed heartily, a completely false sounding laugh. John just shook his head at him, until Sherlock elbowed him, and he joined in.

“Why for the performance of course!” Sherlock said, as if this were obvious.

John stopped laughing and gave him a look. He had no idea where this was going.

“The performance?” Mrs. Hudson said, sounding totally confused.

“A play! Amateur theatrics, Mrs. Hudson. The bowling league. We're doing a charity night for the, er, Tanorexia Society of Britain. We must all do our part you know. Right John?”

“Oh yes,” said John “All those poor orange people everywhere.”

“Exactly!” said Sherlock with clap of his hands. “We’re doing Taming of the Shrew. Shakespeare! Anywho, it’s all men you know, so we have to be a bit…liberal. John here is playing Petruchio, and they’ve honored me by asking me to play Katherina. The lead! Mycroft will be quite jealous. You'll love it! I’ll get you tickets for opening night. Right up front!” Sherlock punctuated this with a huge smile.

He moved forward and grabbed Mrs. Hudson’s elbow, propelling her toward the door. “Now, if you don’t mind, John and I really have to get back at it. No time to waste, and John’s having a bit of trouble with this scene.”

Mrs. Hudson wrenched her elbow out of Sherlock’s grip. “Oh very well. But do try to keep it down. I’m doing a bit of yoga, and all this crashing about is ruining my Om Shanti Om.” She grabbed the door handle to leave, but turned back at the last moment. “And John, you really need to adjust that…bulge…though, good for you, dear!” And she was gone.

John looked down to see the outline of the ring box straining his trousers. He looked up at Sherlock. “Tanorexia? Really?”

“It was the first thing that came to mind!” Sherlock said. 

John sighed. “You are barking mad.”

“And you have chapped lips!” Sherlock retorted snottily. 

“What’s going on, Sherlock?” John asked, eyeing him. “You come in here, and show me that ring...for Molly, I assume?” 

Sherlock nodded.

John pulled the dreaded box out of his pocket, popped the lid, and they both stared at the ring. “So, what do you need?”

“Your help, John. As always.”

“With what?”

“Rings, and things, and fine array.”

********************

Sherlock, John and Greg sat around their usual table at the pub. They had called an informal little meeting, so that Sherlock could explain his situation, and his friends could help him decide on a strategy going forward.

But right now they were dealing with Greg.

John was eyeing the good Inspector over his pint. “I can’t believe it. She was all over you at the wedding.”

Greg sighed disgustedly. “Tell me about it. Thought for certain it was a sure thing. But so far, bugger all. I’ve used all my best pulling techniques. I even took her dancing and tried out a few rumpelty bumps. Nothing! Not so much as a goodnight kiss. That woman is made of stern stuff, I’m telling you.”

John shrugged. “So move on, mate. Maybe she’s not interested. Maybe she’s gay. Maybe she gets off on toying with blokes, like a cat with a juicy mouse. You never have any trouble with birds. Find someone else.”

“Nah!” said Greg, waving this off. “Not going to give up now. I’m three dates in. I’ve made an investment. Just got to find the right thing to get her juices flowing. Thought I had it the other night. I pulled out the big guns. Sherlock’s super shag-me cologne.”

John was shocked at this admission. “You bought special cologne?”

“Of course not!” said Greg, offended. “I nicked it from Sherlock’s last time I was there, didn’t I? Wasn’t going to put out the dosh without trying it out. Groundwork, remember?”

“You stole my cologne!?” Sherlock cried, incensed.

“I only borrowed it,” said Greg defensively. "I would’ve given it back by now, only it fell out of my pocket at a crime scene. Smashed all over. Good thing we had already removed the body, or the necrophiliacs would have been coming out of the woodwork.”

“You…” Sherlock started.

Greg interrupted him. “And you’re no help at all. You know the girl. Where’s the inside information? Bro’s before Ho’s, Sherlock!”

“I’ve already made my position on this clear, Gregory. I don’t like it, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be messing about with someone who works for my brother. I’m only looking out for you. She will eat you for lunch, mark me.”

“Don’t I wish,” mumbled Greg despondently.

They all sipped their pints in silence for a bit, then Sherlock consulted his phone for the time. “Well, since our other guest seems to be quite rudely late, I guess we had better get started.”

“Finally!” exclaimed John. “I can’t keep this to myself any longer.”

Greg looked around at the two of them. “What’s up, then?”

John looked to Sherlock. “Go on, tell him.”

Sherlock turned to Greg. “I want to get married.”

Silence from Greg.

“Greg?”

Greg shook his head, a bit like a dog after a jump in a lake. “Sorry? I thought you said you wanted to get married. I must be drinking this too fast.”

“That IS what I said….Greg?”

Greg regarded him piteously. “Are you happy, Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“Yes.”

“And Molly…is she happy?”

“I think so…no…I know she is.” Sherlock was firm on this.

"The sex…I mean, the intercourse…is it good?"

Sherlock began to get a bit peeved. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. Spectacular actually.”

“Did you get Molly up the duff?”

“No!” Sherlock was moving from peeved to cheesed-off.

Greg was already there. “Then why in the name of Darwin’s dingle would you want to ruin it?!”

Sherlock shouted back, “I don’t want to ruin anything! I just want to get married!”

From behind them came a very cultured, very familiar voice. “My, my, my. One goes away for two weeks, and all Hades breaks lose. Apparently, I’ve arrived just in time.”

Three heads swung around to face the speaker.

Mycroft was back.


	4. Spy vs. Spy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys come up with...a good idea.  
> The girls are out to ruin it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plans on both sides are set in motion. Basically a bit of a filler chapter, as we get all the players on the board. Next, the games begin...
> 
> Thank for all of your kind comments and kudos. Hope you continue to enjoy.
> 
> I own all mistakes, and nothing else.

Mycroft Holmes strode up to the table with the mien of a man who had not a care in the world. In fact, he looked so relaxed that Sherlock thought he could announced that the Revolution had begun, and an angry horde of the British populace was gathered in front of Buckingham Palace with torches and pitchforks, and Mycroft would have merely lifted a lazy eyebrow and yawned! He was also very, very…brown. Tanorexia?

“You’re brown, aren’t you?” John announced the obvious, rising to shake Mycroft’s hand.

“I suppose I am, a bit” replied Mycroft as he shook, then patted Sherlock’s arm, and seated himself. He turned to Greg. “Stay away from my assistant.”

Greg scowled at him. “What’s it to you?”

“She works extremely hard, doing many important and delicate…tasks for me, and I don’t need her head muddled up with the likes of you. I could tell just from speaking with her this morning that several brain cells have already died. Do the British public, and yourself, a favor and leave off before you get yourself into trouble!

“She fancies me!” Greg insisted.

“She’ll eat you for lunch!” Mycroft returned.

Greg opened his mouth to reply to this, but Mycroft turned his head, dismissing him, and looked at Sherlock. “And you, brother-mine? Finding yourself in another little pickle, are you? Well, I’m at your disposal, per usual.”

Sherlock ignored this. “Going to reveal the big secret?” Mycroft merely lifted an eyebrow. “Where you and the new Lady Holmes got off to on your sex holiday? Why all the cloak and dagger?”

Mycroft shrugged. “Just trying to guard our privacy. Elizabeth and I are very important people in certain circles, you know. We wanted to assure that we wouldn’t be bothered.”

Sherlock raised a brow back at his brother. Centimeters higher than Mycroft could manage. Take that! Sherlock picked up his pint to take a sip.

“If you must know, it was a lovely little village in the South of France. Mummy recommended it, actually.”

Sherlock choked on his beer.

John let out a whistle. “South of France, eh? Nice. Hear they have some beautiful beaches there.”

“Gorgeous,” Mycroft agreed. “And such a laissez faire attitude! It was very open and freeing. I’d highly recommend it.” Mycroft patted Sherlock on the back, as he tried to catch his breath.

“Down the wrong pipe,” Sherlock managed to choke out.

John narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. “Still had time to pop onto the old internet though, I’d imagine, check up on things?”

Mycroft looked at him quizzically. “Very little Wifi available, I’m afraid. And it was rather difficult to find a place to carry one’s phone.”

“Mmmmmmmmm.” John replied, then let this go. He’d catch him out one of these days. “How are you liking married life?”

Mycroft’s face split in a wide, satisfied grin, that Sherlock thought was revolting. “I’d highly recommend that as well. Elizabeth and I are like two halves of the same whole, finally joined. It’s exhilarating!”

Greg turned to John, “Finally getting the rumpy pumpy.”

“Oh, definitely,” John agreed.

“Really gentlemen! And I don’t know why I use that term…”

Greg went on. “Soon we’re going to hear the pitter patter of little feet.”

“Tiny little three piece suits, and wee umbrellas!” John added laughing.

“That’s quite enough,” Mycroft said sourly. “In any case, Elizabeth and I are rather over-age for that endeavor. We’ll have to leave that up to Sherlock and Dr. Hooper.”

“Me?!” exclaimed Sherlock.

“Actually, Elizabeth and I have discussed adding to our family. We thought we might try a hand at breeding dogs.”

“You hate animals!” accused Sherlock.

Mycroft merely shrugged. “When there is so much love, Sherlock, one must spread it around.”

“What kind of dogs? Like the Queen?” asked Greg.

Mycroft shook his head. “While I admire Her Majesty’s devotion to her Corgi’s, Elizabeth and I were thinking more along the line of Maltipoos. Hypoallergenic, you know.”

Greg shook his head at him. “Malti-what’s?

“Poos.” replied Mycroft, seriously. He pulled out his phone to show them a picture of the miniature canines.

“Those aren’t dogs, Mycroft,” John said. “They’re…loofahs.”

“Nonsense!” replied Mycroft studying the picture. “Look at their ickle faces.”

Sherlock eyed his brother, aghast. “What in the name of Wellington’s weiner has happened to you?!”

Mycroft put the phone away and became all business. “What’s happened to me is that I’ve found supreme happiness. And you want just the same. I heard you. Don’t be jealous, Sherlock, it’s not becoming. There's no need to fret, we’ll get you there. All we need is a little…strategy.”

Sherlock took a long swallow from his pint. “Last time, your strategy almost sunk the ship,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Agreed,” said Mycroft pleasantly, “but that was before I had any practical experience, wasn’t it? I was like a new recruit out in the field. Since that time, I’ve managed to identify a woman who meets all my needs, affiance myself and marry, all within three months. Very efficient. Surely, even you must acknowledge my obvious expertise in the matter.”

This was, unfortunately, nothing but the truth, even though Sherlock would have loved to argue. Instead, he asked a question. “Well then, oh maven of matrimony, how did you do it? Share with the class.”

“I simply asked her, Sherlock.” Mycroft replied smugly.

“Yes. yes. But how did you do it?”

John interrupted. “Yeah, I’ve gotta be honest. I’ve been wondering about that myself. Can’t really picture it. What did you do? Send her a ring through interoffice mail, with a memo attached proposing marriage?” 

“Nah,” said Greg. “This is Mycroft. You’ve seen Lady Elizabeth. Quite the fit bird! Had to have been mind-control.”

“Oh you two are comedians. Really. You should have your own program on the BBC. No. It was much more Romantic than that, I assure you.” Mycroft said, sniffing.

“Well?” Sherlock prompted.

They were interrupted for a moment as the waitress dropped off a fresh round. Mycroft, took a sip of his pint, wetting his whistle, then began. 

“It was after a particularly nasty session with two rebel leaders, whose names I cannot reveal or I’d have to have you killed. We were attempting to merge the two factions, and it was rough going. A very messy business. Well, after the seventeenth hour of grueling…negotiations, we finally arrived at an agreement. Once all the documents were signed, and Elizabeth and I got into the lift to get back to the office, I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I confess my blood was running rather hot! And, I had been carrying the blasted ring around with me for weeks. I swear it was mocking me. I grabbed her hand and went down on one knee, right there in the lift!. Creased my pants terribly. I said, let’s try a merger of our own, darling, shall we? She was quite overcome. Had to stop in between floors, if you understand my meaning.”

Sherlock, John and Greg understood his meaning all too well, and a moment was spent trying to erase various images from their brains. 

“Well,” Greg offered finally, “that’s very…you…isn’t it Mike? But it doesn’t help Sherlock. Though there is a lift at Bart’s if that’s needed.”

“No, no.” Mycroft held up a hand. “I wasn’t suggesting Sherlock do what I did. He and Dr. Hooper are a different case entirely. We’ll have to think of something else. We need more data.” Mycroft turned to John. “How did you propose to Mrs. Watson?”

John gave Sherlock a scathing look. “Oh Sherlock was there for that. Don’t think he’ll want to go down that road, since that little stunt of his ended with a bloody nose from my fist!”

“It was a head butt, actually, John,” Sherlock retorted, “but thank you for reminding me. Again.”

Mycroft sighed. He supposed he ought to at least ask. One never knew with idiot savants. He turned to Greg.

“And you? How did you propose to Mrs. Lestrade that was?”

“You mean the first time?” Greg asked, face scrunched in concentration.

Mycroft’s brows lifted. “She turned you down?”

“Nah,” Greg replied. He held up two fingers. “We were married twice.”

Mycroft blinked at him.

“It’s amazing that a woman would put herself through that two times, isn’t it?” John offered.

“Very well, the first time, then,” snapped Mycroft. He’d forgotten how much Greg could try his patience.

“That was a bit of alright, actually,” said Greg, smiling at the memory. “I was a constable back then, of course, and I was keeper for the Station cricket team. I set it all up for the night of the championship tourney. Which we won, thank-you-very-much! You should have seen us running the pitch!”

Blank looks from Sherlock and Mycroft, but John gave him a thumbs up, so he went on. “Anyway…under our uniforms we all had vests, with letters printed on them, spelling out M-A-R-R-Y-M-E-R-U-T-H. After the match, we all popped off our overshirts and lined up in front of the missus. It was brilliant! Well, expect for the fact that those great blockheads got all messed up, and what they actually spelled out was H-U-R-T-M-E-M-A-R-Y-R. Luckily none of the bloke’s birds was named Mary, especially Reynolds, so we got it all sorted and she finally got the picture. What a shag I got that night!”

Mycroft turned to Sherlock, “I’m thinking…”

Greg cut him off. “Oh!! Oh!! I’ve got it! That morgue at Bart’s is always full-up! We sneak in, right? At night, after everyone’s gone. We paint letters on the bodies. That way, when Molly comes in the next morning, and starts pulling out the drawers, Marry-Me-Molly!”

“That may be the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard,” Mycroft scolded. “How do we guarantee she unveils the corpses in the right order? I know you have a brain in there somewhere, Greg. Use it!”

John turned to Sherlock. “Sherlock, please, listen to me this time. You are making this much more complicated than it needs to be. Invite Molly over. Sit her on the sofa. Pull out the ring, and get down on one knee. She’ll get the message, trust me. No grand theatre this time! I don’t know if my heart can take it. Think of Rosie!”

“Oh John, please do stop being so dramatic.” Mycroft waved away his concerns. “I have it all quite under control.” Mycroft put his hands up, fingers splayed, arms swaying back and forth, as if trying to paint a picture for them all. “I’m seeing Sherlock in a dinner jacket. Dr. Hooper wearing a lovely evening gown.” Mycroft paused for a moment, and turned to Greg. “We’ll have Anthea pick that out, of course, otherwise she’ll end up in some lime-green taffeta horror-show. Where was i? Oh, yes. I see a moonlit stroll in a garden. I see Sherlock playing a violin concerto bespoken for the occasion.” Mycroft was lost in his creation.

Sherlock leaned over to John and whispered, “Actually, I am working on an original piece with Eurus.” John just shook his head.

They both turned back to Mycroft, who resembled a medium conjuring up a spirit from the great beyond, eyes closed, a beatific look on his face. “I’m seeing Sherlock ending the concerto with a flair, his back turned to his beloved. Dr. Hooper is enraptured. He turns, and extends the bow to her, like a knight presenting his lady with a token, and there on the end…a ring!”

Mycroft opened his eyes, clapping his hands together delightedly! “Well?”

“That’s…not bad, actually.” John offered, surprised. He turned to Sherlock. “That’ s not bad. It’s simple. Sweet. Not too much fuss. And I think Molly would love it.”

“Hold on,” said Greg. “It sounds all well and good, but I have question.”

Mycroft merely lifted his brows at Greg. 

“So Sherlock is flailing around in this garden, playing his fiddle…”

“Fiddle!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“How’s he keeping the ring on the end? Glue? What if it flies off someplace? Then all you’ve got is two tossers in fancy dress crawling around on their hand and knees in the dark.”

The other three just stared at him, then each other. Mycroft sighed. Why did this always fall to him?

“Greg,” he started slowly, as if talking to a particularly slow child, which in a way he was, “the ring wouldn’t be on the end of the bow while Sherlock played. He would place it there after he finished, yes?”

“Ohhhhhhhh,” Greg replied. “I like it then.”

Mycroft turned to Sherlock excitedly. “Well?”

Sherlock swallowed hard, then he nodded his head. “Yes. I like it.”

“Wonderful!” Mycroft exclaimed. “Of course there are many details to be worked out, where and when and so forth, but for now…gentlemen raise your glasses.” They all did so. “Here’s to Operation Marrying Molly!”

There were “Cheers!” all around, and they drank. 

********************

That same evening. Molly’s Hooper’s flat.

It was girls’ night. Joining Molly in her comfortable parlor, sipping red wine and snacking on an assortment of munchables, were her old friend, Martha Hudson, seated beside her in he sofa, and her newest friend, Anthea Jones, slouched comfortably across an easy chair, .

As Molly had predicted months ago, Mrs. Hudson and Anthea got on like a house on fire. When they were all three together like this, which they tried to do on a weekly basis in varying locations, Molly sometimes laughed so hard, that her stomach would hurt the next day. The two of them were just that hilarious! Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not, but in either case Molly was very grateful for it.

However, at the moment, Molly wasn’t laughing. Mrs. Hudson had just told her something that was so unbelievable, so unexpected, that she simply couldn’t wrap her brain around it.

“You’re very sure?” Molly asked Mrs. Hudson.

“Molly!” scolded Mrs. Hudson. “Of course I’m sure! Would I tell you something like this, if I wasn’t? What do you take me for?”

“I know.” Molly said in a very small voice, “It’s just that it’s so surprising. I never thought I’d be in this position. You’re absolutely, positive?”

“Molly Hooper,” Mrs. Hudson said crossly, folding her arms at her chest, “I may be old, but there is nothing wrong with my eyesight! Well, except for the bifocals, but that’s for reading. I know what I saw! And, I’m an expert on bulges of any variety…it was a ring box!”

Molly go up on her knees on the couch, arms wrapped around her waist, enthralled. “But, I don't understand why you caught Sherlock and John…kissing?”

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes. “It would be obvious to any seasoned observer what actually happened, Molly. Plus I had been listening at the door for ten minutes, hadn’t I? I was that concerned about Sherlock! He’s been as jumpy as a monkey with two bananas for the past few weeks. Didn’t know what to do with himself. Well, I had to get to the bottom of it, didn’t I? Why he didn’t confide in me, I’m sure I don’t know. And me, just like a second mother to him.”

At this point, Mrs. Hudson pulled a hankie from her cleavage and sniffled miserably into it. Molly looked over at Anthea, who just shrugged her shoulders. Then, in the blink of an eye, the boo-hooing stopped, and the handkerchief was stuffed back from whence it came.”

“Where was I? Oh yes, Sherlock told John that he was going to ask you to marry him. And John was celebrating, you know, as any man would if he found out his life sentence had been commuted to time served. John was quite overcome with affection at that moment. And Sherlock was really trying to fight him off, Molly dear, but you know John. Persistent. He was practically squashing our poor Sherlock. No more biscuits for John, Molly. I believe he’s getting rather stout. Well, you should have seen their faces when I burst in and caught them at it. How I laughed and laughed when I got back upstairs. I thought I was going to have an accident! And the rubbish story they came up with! The bowling league putting on Taming of the Shrew, indeed! As if anyone would cast Sherlock as Katherina. He’s far too tall. Why you’d need a giant Petruchio. And in any case, it was obvious they were hiding something. Their eyes were all shifty, especially Sherlock. They thought they could put one over on me. Me! I mean, really! Who do they think they’re dealing with, an amateur? I’m sure Sherlock is down the pub announcing his intentions to the rest of those morons as we speak! Oh dear!” 

Mrs. Hudson picked up her wineglass and took a healthy swallow, eyeing Molly over the rim. Molly, who had a far-away, dreamy look in her eye. If she had been alone, Mrs. Hudson suspected that she would have been scribbling Mrs. Sherlock Holmes over and over into a notebook. The dire nature of what was probably already occurring, hadn’t seemed to have dawned on her. Well, someone would have to burst her bubble. And the dirty work always fell to her. With a glance at Anthea, a marvelous ally!, Mrs. Hudson began…”Molly dear, do you quite understand what’s happening here?”

Molly looked from Anthea to Mrs. Hudson, a gormless grin on her face. “I’m going to be Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. Molly Holmes. Molly Hooper-Holmes?”

Mrs. Hudson snatched away Molly’s wineglass and put it on the table. “Enough of that my girl. You need your wits about you.”

Molly looked at her wineglass…suddenly not in her hand….then back to Mrs. Hudson. ”Why?”

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Molly, dear,” she began patiently. “What are you going to do about what I just told you?”

“Do?” Molly was confused. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to wait for him to ask, then act surprised?”

Mrs. Hudson tried to keep calm. “Molly, Sherlock is down the pub. Right now. With John and Greg…and Mycroft.”

“Yes,” Molly said smiling. “We thought it would be nice if we scheduled boys night out parallel to girls night out, so that…”

‘Molly!” snapped Mrs. Hudson. She hated to be sharp with the girl, but needs must…and there was no time to lose. ”Sherlock is down the pub. With John and Greg and Mycroft. Asking for their advice. On how he should propose. To you.”

“Oh!” Molly said. Now she was getting it. She waved her hand at Mrs. Hudson. “But…well, after last time, how bad could it be? Surely they’ve learned their lesson? Maybe we should just wait it out?”

“Molly Hooper,” Mrs Hudson said firmly, “in years future, when your children ask to hear the story of how their father proposed marriage to their mother, do you want to explain why that romantic moment occurred at the London Sewage Treatment Facility, or in front of the Larvae Collection at the Museum of Natural History?”

Molly looked over at Anthea, then back to Mrs. Hudson. “No?”

“Then we can’t just wait it out. We have to get ahead of them.”

“But…” Molly began.

Anthea weighed in for the first time. “Mols, I have to say, I agree with Hudders on this. Usually, I’d advise a wait and see strategy just like you said, but in this case…I really think we’d better wade in. Cut them off at the pass.”

“Why?” asked Molly.

“Well, ever since the boss got back from his honeymoon, he’s been acting a bit odd…even for him.”

“Odd how?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

“Well…happy-like. Always smiling. Laughing. It’s unsettling. Yesterday I caught he and Lady Elizabeth in his office, on his laptop, looking at pictures of these little dogs that look like teddy-bears, and they were making the most horrid noises. All cooing and baby-talk. Gave me the chills. I’ve had to put off three meetings with the Prime Minister. I’m afraid he’s going to want to show him his honeymoon slides! He’s in a love-fog. Arse over tit. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. It’s like a disease, and he’s dying to spread it round. I really can’t trust his judgment right now. There’s no telling what he might do!

“But what can we really do about it?” asked Molly. “I can’t ban Sherlock from seeing his friends or his brother. And I can’t watch him every minute. I have a job, after-all.”

Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth, but Molly cut her off. “And no bugging them, Mrs. Hudson. That’s not sporting.”

“Oh very well,” grumbled Mrs. Hudson. “If you insist on doing it the hard way, then I suppose it will have to be Distraction.”

“Distraction?” asked Anthea.

“Of course!” Mrs. Hudson explained. “We give them something else to do that keeps them occupied, and off the subject of Molly’s proposal. They’re men, you know. Terrible at multi-tasking. While they’re blundering around, out of our way, we come up with our own proposal strategy and setting, and gently guide Sherlock in that direction. Trust me, I know him. He won’t be able to keep it in very long. We just have to make sure he’s in the right place at the right time. And you too of course, Molly dear! It would never do for him to get himself engaged to the bagger at Tesco’s or some cabbie.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” Molly looked a little anxious. “But how do we keep them distracted?”

“Oh don’t you worry, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson with a wide grin. “I’m full of ideas.”

That was exactly what Molly was afraid of. But, she knew enough to know this was going to happen with or without her, so…best to go along and try to keep the damage to a minimum. Sometimes it didn’t pay to be the only sane person in the asylum. However, if all this ended with her engaged to marry to Sherlock Holmes, it would be worth any humiliation…she loved the bugger that much.

“Now ladies!” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, “raise your glasses!” The women all hoisted their wineglasses. “Here’s to Operation Bamboozle the Berks!”

There were "Cheers!" all around, and they drank.


	5. The Oddballs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan to distract begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Chapter! Thanks to you all for continuing to read and comment. I love hearing from you.
> 
> All mistakes herein belong to yours truly. I own nothing!

Later that same evening. 

221B Baker Street

Sherlock Holmes sat in his very comfortable chair, a cup of tea at his elbow. He had arranged a small table in front of him, and this was covered with a mass of papers. He was scribbling away diligently at something.

After the “bull-session,” as John had referred to it, at the pub broke up, Sherlock was feeling relieved, and much more relaxed than he had in weeks. The horrid black velvet box was now in John’s possession, to be kept by that trustworthy fellow until it was called upon for use. Having that blasted ring out of his flat made him feel as if the place had been exorcised of a demon!

Sherlock, John and Greg had all heartily approved of Mycroft’s idea for proposing to Molly, and this settled his mind greatly as well. Now it was simply a matter of where and when, and getting Molly to the right spot at the right time. He had nothing else to worry about! 

Aside from the fact that getting Molly to agree to marry him would provide him with great personal fulfillment and happiness, it would also solve an ongoing problem, which was how did he refer to himself in relation to Molly Hooper? Boyfriend? Abso-bloody-lutely not. Lover? Ghastly. Partner? He always referred to John as his partner. Significant other? Boring! No, it was husband or nothing! This was very satisfactory. 

He went back to his papers. He had been a bit “het-up” as Mrs. Hudson would say, when he got home from the pub. He had changed into his comfortable pajamas and dressing gown, but he knew there was no way he would sleep, so instead, here he sat. He had started off completing the tournament roster for the bowling league. This task fell to him because, frankly, most of the other bowlers, though very nice fellows, were not of an intellectual bent, and became confused easily. Sherlock had completed the schedule in fifteen minutes, and it was ready to be posted at next Wednesday’s League meeting. 

Now he was working on something much more important. A Matrimonial Organizational Chart! He was merrily working his way through an outline of duties and expectations. There were several categories such as, “Finances,” “Living Arrangements,” “Quarrels,” “Affection,” “Intercourse,” “Privacy,” “Hobbies,” “Careers,” “Sulking,” “Complaints and Grievances,” and “Offspring.” There was, of course, some wiggle room built in, as Molly would want some say, but, overall, he felt he had done a fairly competent job. Molly would no doubt be very pleased when he presented it to her. Perhaps after the proposal. Then they could go over it together at their leisure. 

There was a quiet knocking at the door. Sherlock consulted his phone. At this hour? “Come in!” he called.

The door swung open, and he was surprised to see Molly Hooper making her way into the flat. Lovely!

“This is a wonderful surprise! I didn’t expect you this evening.”

Molly grinned at him, while shedding her coat and scarf. “I hadn’t planned on coming, but…I missed you.” 

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat, just as it did any time Molly admitted to any kind of tender feeling. Though he was not very good with words of affection yet, Molly certainly was. This was why she had been assigned 85% of the tasks under “Affection.” He was hoping to be able to make this deficit up under one of he other categories, perhaps even “Intercourse,” if he could work some more time into their schedule.

“Did you?” he asked, delighted.

Molly began moving toward him, in a very purposeful way, a familiar gleam in her eye. “I confess, I did.” She stopped in front of Sherlock’s work table, eyeing all the papers. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

Suddenly Sherlock remembered what he had been working on, and started flipping over his notes to hide them. “No, no! Nothing important! Bowling league business!”

Molly giggled at this, as she always did when Sherlock brought up the league. It was almost as if she didn’t think him sporty at all! He pushed the table aside, and patted his lap. “Well, come here then, if you missed me so much.”

Molly came forward and seated herself across his lap, curling into him, arms about his neck. She brought her face up to his and rubbed his nose with her own. “Hullo.”

“Hullo,” he replied, a huge smile breaking across his face. “How was your girl’s night?”

“Amazing!” replied Molly. “Boy’s night?”

“Brilliant.”

Molly: “Captivating.”

Sherlock: “Ducky.”

Molly: “Ebullient.”

Sherlock: “Fascinating.”

Molly: “Genial.”

Sherlock: “Halcyon.”

This continued all way to “Weleful.” Before Sherlock proclaimed himself, “Much too tired and comfortable to be bothered by X, Y and Z.” And also, it was at this point that Molly began kissing Sherlock’s neck in a way that caused all the blood in his brain to jump ship. 

“You really did miss me,” Sherlock said, now squirming in his seat.

“Mmmmmmm,” replied Molly. She had made her way up his neck and was now doing that thing she did to his earlobe that always made him purr like a cat. 

Drat! Toby! He’d forgotten the blasted creature entirely. It was always something. Now he’d have to redo the chart.

Suddenly, Molly was pulling away, and was up off of his lap, standing in front of him, breathing heavily. She reached down and took his hands, pulling him to his feet. “C’mon now, Sherlock. It’s time for all good detectives to be in bed.” She began walking backwards toward his bedroom, trying to tug him along. He resisted for a minute, looking over at his paperwork. He really should put that away.

Molly tugged more insistently, and Sherlock’s attention went back to her. “You’re very forceful this evening.” He laughed at her determined expression. “Let me just...” he gestured toward the papers.

“Uh huh,” Molly shook her head, and began pulling again. “Those will keep. I’m not only feeling forceful, Sherlock, I’m feeling very…adventurous.” She punctuated this with an evil grin, and all thoughts of paperwork disappeared from Sherlock’s brain. He followed Molly docilely into his bedroom, and she slammed the door shut behind them.

********************

Fifteen minutes later.

The door to 221B opened silently. Mrs. Hudson poked her head through and peered around to be sure that she was alone. She tip-toed her way across the front room, in the direction of Sherlock’s desk. One of her steps caused a creaking in the floorboards, and she froze, listening. There was an explosion of giggles from the behind the closed bedroom door. Molly. Then a loud thump, and Sherlock’s voice, clear as day, stating, “I told you those wouldn’t hold me! Come here you wench!” A little scream. Then the moaning and thumping began. Good. She’d have at least five minutes to find what she was looking for. Hopefully, for Molly’s sake, it would be more like ten.

She resumed tip-toeing toward the desk, but then she noticed a small table, next to Sherlock’s favorite chair, covered in papers. Ah ha!

Mrs. Hudson grabbed the papers, then started shuffling through them quickly. She stopped briefly on the “Matrimonial Organizational Chart” that Sherlock had been working on. Glancing through it, she rolled her eyes. “You’ll really have to up your game on Intercourse, my boy, if you think you’re going to stick her with 85% of Affection and only 20% of Sulking." She shook her head at Sherlock’s foolishness and dropped the chart back to the table. She shuffled through a few more papers, until she got to what she was looking for. “Hurrah!” she whispered to herself. “There you are…”

She tip-toed back across the room, letting herself out of 221B as silently as she came, clutching Sherlock’s bowling roster in one hand, and pulling the door closed behind her. 

********************

The next morning.

221A Baker Street

Mrs. Hudson sat at her kitchen table, alternately sipping a cup of tea, making notations on a piece of paper, and humming God Save the Queen.

At precisely 9am, she picked up her phone, and dialed a number.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

“Tanorexia Foundation of Britain, this is Isabel, how may I direct your call?”

“Hello dear! My name is Martha Hudson, and I’d like to speak to someone about organizing a benefit!”

********************

The following Wednesday.

The Bowl-A-Rama

Sherlock, John, Greg and Mycroft made their way toward the entrance of the Bowl-A-Rama. They were running a bit late for the League meeting. This was mostly the fault of Sherlock and John, who had just finished up a case, but also partially due to Mycroft, who had taken at least fifteen minutes with a lint brush, cleaning his trousers of stray dog hairs, before he would agree to get out of the car. Mycroft and Lady Elizabeth had recently become the parents of three Maltipoos (two bitches and a stud) to begin their breeding experiment, and though Mycroft proclaimed the creatures “the veriest little darlings!” he was a bit put out about the amount of dog hair he was carrying about on his person. 

“Oh do stop being such a fuss-budget, Mycroft,” said Sherlock crossly, as they entered the building and made their way down a dark hallway toward the lanes. “If you were so worried about shedding, you should have gotten a hairless breed.”

Greg jabbed John in the ribs, and snorted “Like Dr. Evil.”

Suddenly, Mycroft stopped in the middle of the hallway, halting Sherlock, and holding up his hand to arrest John and Greg in their tracks.

“What’s up? We’re late!” Greg said irritably.

“Do you hear that?” Mycroft replied.

“I don’t hear anything, Mycroft.” John said.

And John was right. Where usually there was the sound of balls rolling, pins crashing, and men’s voices shouting both encouragement and epithets, there was only silence.

“Exactly,” said Sherlock. “Something’s wrong.”

The four men crashed into entrance of the alley like a team of Her Majesty’s Special Forces at the ready, expecting to encounter anything from a hostage situation to a terrorist attack. John, the only one carrying a gun, was out front, Mycroft behind him brandishing his umbrella, and Greg and Sherlock bringing up the rear.

They all pulled up short, however, by the sight they were greeted with. 

All the bowlers, each and every one of the men from the other five teams in the league, were sitting around, looking disgruntled, grumbling and reading handouts of some sort.

The League was made up of six teams, of four bowlers each. These were:

• The Swirlys – plumbers.  
• The Ball and Chains – iron workers.  
• The Proctos – a group of four colorectal surgeons from St. Barts.  
• The Highballers – barkeeps from a local pub  
• The Holy Rollers - vicars  
• The Oddballs – Sherlock, John, Mycroft and Greg – this name voted upon, and given to them by the other teams. 

“What the devil is going on in here?” Sherlock said, looking around at the group of surly men.  
.  
Graham, one of the Swirly’s, looked up from his sheet and spotted the four latecomers. “Well! There you lot are. About time too! Were you ever going to tell us about it?” He shook the papers in his hand at them angrily.

“Yeah,” said Clive, a very short, squat member of the Ball and Chains, with very little neck and a huge head, “would have been nice to let us in on it! Copped all the good parts for yourselves already did you? You wankers!”

Arthur, a youngish member of the Holy Rollers, spoke up at this. “There’s no need to use language, Clive! I’m sure our friends here have a perfectly reasonable explanation for their deceptive behavior.” He turned a look on the four men that said plainly “For Shame!” in a way only vicars could carry off.

There was much grumbling amongst the other bowlers, and a good deal of “the stink eye” directed at John, Sherlock, Mycroft and Greg. Voices were being raised and accusations slung about. Unfortunately, none of the “Oddballs” had any idea what the problem was.

Sherlock raised a hand for silence. Nothing. Finally, Greg put his fingers to his lips and let out his famous “constable whistle,” which could deafen someone from three blocks away. This did the trick.

“Now,” said Sherlock, “Can someone please explain what is going on here? If this is about the tournament schedule…”

As if on cue, from the back of the alley, came a voice. “Yoohoo! Sherlock! Oh there you all are. You’re ever so late.”

All heads swung in the direction of the voice, and, for some unknown reason, there was Mrs. Hudson. And she wasn’t alone. She was dragging with her a very tall, thin young man, whose most prominent characteristic was the complete and total paleness of his milky skin. He was so white, so chalky, that he looked like a corpse that been drained of every drop of blood. If it weren’t for his dark head of hair, he could have passed for an albino.

Mycroft sidled up behind Sherlock. “It’s Nosferatu.” He whispered “I always knew she was the prince of darkness.”

Sherlock ignored this. “Mrs. Hudson? What the devil are you doing here?”

"Oh Sherlock. I’m so sorry to intrude, but I really didn’t know what else to do! I was ever so confused, wasn’t I? When I called up TSB and they had no idea what I was talking about…”

“TSB?” John asked her, shoving his gun into the back of his pants.

“Well, of course, dear. The Tanorexia Society of Britain.”

Oh. No. John and Sherlock exchanged horrified looks.

“You called the Tanorexia…” Sherlock began.

“Of course! Well I wanted to do my part, didn’t I Sherlock? Just as you said. But when I called, they didn’t seem to have any idea what I was talking about. They were very confused, poor dears. Until I got Cyril here on the phone.” She gestured to the pale young man. “When I told him about the League and the benefit you wanted to do, well he jumped right on board. So I said I would bring him down here in person to meet all the lovely gentlemen, and you could work out the details. It was the least I could do! And he’s such Shakespeare aficionado, aren’t you Cyril?” The young man opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off. “And Taming of the Shrew is just his favorite of the comedies! I got so inspired that I called up a friend of mine from my burlesque days. He used to run a little theater, you know. Well, it’s sadly empty right now, but they have the loveliest little stage, and a full costume and wardrobe department just sitting there. Everything you need! When I told him about the benefit, he agreed to let us use it for the performance. So much nicer than the old Bowl-A-Rama! “

John opened his mouth to say something, but again was cut off, “No! Don’t thank me. I just wanted to help!” 

Mycroft tried to wade in at this point. “So, if I’m to understand you Mrs. Hudson, The Bowling League is putting on a benefit for the…excuse me, but I think I missed the name of the charity?” He directed this at Cyril, who was staring at Mycroft. Mycroft’s brown skin in particular, with a look of combined horror and pity. 

“The Tanorexia Society of Britain, sir. And I see now why your brother and his friends are so sympathetic to our cause. I believe we may be able to help you.” 

“Me?” Mycroft exclaimed. Then he seemed to realize what the term Tanorexia meant, and he let out a little laugh. “Oh no, my good man. I‘ve only just returned from a beach holiday.”

“Of course, of course,” said Cyril, as one would when humoring a madman who proclaims “I’m not crazy!” He turned to Mrs. Hudson. “That’s how it begins, you know. A simple beach holiday. Next thing you know he’s buying a sunlamp for the reading room. Then it’s sneaking out at lunch for 5 minutes at the sunning bed. After that, it’s straight to the self-tanner. I’ve seen them hide it all over the house, so they can get a fix when they need it. You can always tell by the palms. Orange.” He tipped his head over toward Mycroft, who stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, then turned to Sherlock and John.

“You never told me you were organizing a benefit!” He turned to Greg, “did you know about this?”

Sherlock and John were mouthing ‘YES” behind Mycroft’s back.

“Uh, well. I knew they were thinking about it…”

Mycroft turned back to Sherlock and John. “Taming of the Shrew? Really? I would think for this group some sort of Revue would have been more appropriate.”

Mrs. Hudson made her way over to Mycroft. “Oh Mycroft, I thought just the same! Only John and Sherlock are ever so excited to do Taming of the Shrew. Why they’ve already been rehearsing. And I must say, I think Sherlock will make a wonderful Katherina!”

“He’s too tall!” came a shout from the back of the room. Sherlock thought it might have been Keith, one of The Proctos, who’s height hovered just above two meters and who had to weigh at least twenty stone!

This was ignored by Mrs. Hudson, who went on. “And John, such a forceful Petruchio, why I walked in on them rehearsing, and I was quite overcome!”

“Mmmmmmmm,” said Mycroft. “Even so, Mrs. Hudson, I really don’t think this group would be able to pull off something as complicated as…”

“Oh, I know Mycroft. I was telling Cyril the same thing! Perhaps we’re over-reaching, I said. But then I remembered that you, yourself, have theatrical experience, don’t you? And I told Cyril, well, Mycroft Holmes is just a natural leader of men. If anyone could pull it off, it would be him! And Cyril quite agreed that you must be director, if we have any chance at all of making this a success.”

John grabbed Sherlock by the arm and pulled him back from the others. “She’s gone off her nut. We have tell the truth!”

Sherlock pulled John further back away from the crowd. “Tell her what? That we lied? She caught you kissing me! We’ll never hear the end of it!”

“The truth! That you were telling me about proposing to Molly and I just got…carried away!” John insisted.

“I can’t do that! If we tell her, Molly will know within five minutes, John. You know she will. Mrs. Hudson will never be able to keep her big nose out of it! All my plans will be ruined. Do you want to ruin my plans? Do you want to ruin Molly Hooper's perfect proposal?”

“Well I don’t want to do Taming of the Bloody Shrew, Sherlock!” John exclaimed.

“It’ll be fine, John. Trust me. Please!” Sherlock turned a beseeching look on his best friend.

“This is the worst thing you have ever done to me. I’m going to end up in tights, Sherlock.” John groused.

“Well you do have the legs for them, John.” Sherlock said with an ingratiating smile.”

“Oh, bugger off.” John walked back toward the group, Sherlock following behind.

“Very well!” Mycroft was saying. “It will have to be an expurgated version, of course. Can’t have people sitting there for three hours with their rear ends going numb. Not for charity. I’ll take care of that. I’ll go through my copy and pull something together. Just the highlights you know. Now, what we need to do tonight is complete the casting, since we already seem to have a Katherina and Petruchio.” He looked critically at Sherlock and John. “Perhaps Sherlock can stoop a bit. Or we can have him do it on a bit of a squat. Sew some slippers to his knees. We’ll have to think about that.”

“How come, your brother gets to be the lead? Sounds like nepotism to me!” This was from Geoffrey, one of The Highballs, a man with the face of an ex-pugilist, whose nose had been broken and reset several times, leaving it listing to the left a bit.

Mycroft sighed. “Of course it HAS to be Sherlock! Look at him! He is the prettiest, after all. With the most feminine features. Look at those cheekbones! Put a dress and a wig on him, and you’d all be trying to pull him.”

All the men turned to Sherlock, trying to picture him in drag, and evaluating his sex appeal.

“Now I, myself, would have cast Greg here as the loutish, drunken Petruchio, but since John has his heart set on it…I suppose we’ll have to use Greg as Bianca.”

“Bianca!” cried Greg, horrified. “I’m not playing a bloody woman!”

“Now Greg,” said Mycroft, “it’s a grand tradition in Shakespearian theater. Men play the women’s parts all the time. Don’t be difficult.”

“I don’t care about your damn tradition. You’re not getting me in a bloody dress! What will the boys down the station think?”

“Well,” Mycroft sniffed, “I don’t know anything about the boys down the station, but I’d wager Anthea might find it…captivating.”

This peaked Greg’s interest.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“Anthea is an intriguing creature,” Mycroft said, buffing his nails on the lapel of his suit. “Very…liberal in her tastes. I must say I was a bit surprised when I found out she had gone out with you. I always thought her interests lie in a different direction, if you know what I mean. Perhaps seeing you in a dress would help…seal the deal, as it were. Double your chances in any case.”

“Oh he’s good,” whispered John to Sherlock.

Greg demurred for a minute, then, “well, I suppose I could look at the part. I am the prettiest one here, next to Sherlock. Can’t have Nigel over there playing a young ingenue, can we?”

Nigel was a sixty-three year old plumber that everyone called “Crack.” Not for any particular bowling prowess, but because whenever he went to the line and bent to hurl his ball he showed at least five inches of hairy backside. He scowled at Greg.

“Wonderful!” Mycroft exclaimed clapping his hands. “We’re nearly there. Now everyone else, break up into your teams. I see Mrs. Hudson has supplied you all with excerpts from the play. I will go around and listen to your readings and assign roles according to your strengths.”

Mycroft turned to Mrs. Hudson and Cyril, who still regarded him suspiciously. “I believe we’re all set here now. Thank you so much. I will assign a rehearsal schedule, and have my assistant call you. I’ll have her handle everything! Invitations, flyers, etc. And Mrs. Hudson, I’ll have to get into that theater as soon as possible please.”

Mrs. Hudson reached into her cleavage and pulled out a key, which she handed over. “All ready for you Mycroft. Oh, this is going to be such fun! Wait until I tell the girls in my bridge club. I’m so excited. Won’t you all be busy bees! Shakespeare! How delightful! If there’s anything I can do to help, why you just let me know.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Mycroft. He turned to Cyril and held out his hand to shake. “Cyril. You can be assured that everything is quite in order now.”

Cyril reached out a pale, delicate looking hand. When Mycroft grabbed it to shake, Cyril flipped it over, examining his palm closely. Apparently he was satisfied that Mycroft was not abusing himself with self-tanner, so he shook hands limply, and allowed Mrs. Hudson to lead him away.

“Oh won’t Elizabeth be excited when I tell her!” said Mycroft. “She loves the theater.” He turned to Sherlock, John and Greg. “I expect you three, as leads, to set a good example for the rest of the cast. No shirking. I’ll get you your scripts tomorrow. Start learning your lines. I’ll want to begin blocking immediately.” With this, he took off toward the first group, The Swirlys. “Now gentleman, let’s hear you. I think Gary here might make an excellent Gremio!”

Greg turned to John and Sherlock. “What the bloody hell is going on?”

“John kissed me.” Sherlock blurted out.

John turned to Sherlock. “Really?”

Greg held his hands up. “On second thought, I don’t want to know. I’m telling you right now though, I’m not shaving my legs. Or my back.”


	6. TOTS for TSB - Week 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Operations, One Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to it now! 
> 
> Week one of our production.
> 
> All mistakes belong to me. I own nothing of Sherlock or Taming of the Shrew for that matter! If there is such a thing as the Tanorexia Society of Britain, I should have apologized a few chapters ago. I'm very sorry.

Week One.

221C Baker Street

It was three weeks until the Bowling League’s benefit performance of Taming of the Shrew (or TOTS as Greg had fashioned it) for the Tanorexia Society of Britain.

Sherlock, John, Greg and Mycroft had gathered at John’s flat to go over the week’s progress

Mycroft, being Mycroft, had already penned an abridged version of the play, and emailed everyone in the League the script, the cast list, a rehearsal schedule, and appointments for costume fittings, which had already begun. Anthea had to drop off one of these in “hard copy” format to August, one of the Holy Rollers, who believed that the internet was a tool of Satan and refused to even join Facebook. But, as he was one of the designated “Prop-Masters,” he really needed to be in the know.

Mycroft had also been down to the aptly named “Little Theater” and pronounced it, “Charming! And perfect for our needs. They have everything, down to the swords and jerkins! Though I do hope Anthea remembered to order that set of extra-large tights. I think we’ll have a job of it cramming a few of those Swirly’s into their gear. And Keith is a lost cause. I’ve asked him to be stage manager. You’d think a physician would take better care of himself.”

“Now let’s see,” Mycroft began, donning a pair of pince-nez, and referring to a binder of copious notes, all tabbed and highlighted in different colors, according to some system that no one else in the world would understand. “Our casting is complete. We have our Katherina and Petruchio.” He peered at Sherlock and John over the glasses. “You two are learning your lines, yes?”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Already done.” John turned to stare at him.

“No one likes a show-off with an eidetic memory, Sherlock. Surely you remember that from Primary School.” Mycroft turned to John. “And you, John? Coming along alright?”

“Yeah. Oh yeah,” said John. “Great. Perfect.”

“Hmmmmmmm,” commented Mycroft, and scribbled something down in his notebook. John tried to read what he wrote, upside down, and thought he caught the words “difficult” and “thick” before the page was turned.

Mycroft turned to Greg. “And our lovely Bianca?”

“Yeah, I’m good. The boys down the station have been great. Helping out. Running lines with me. Haven’t given me too much of the business, actually. They’ve taken to calling me Sweetheart, but that’s affectionate-like. They’re really quite excited. They’re all coming. Said they wouldn’t miss it.”

“Lovely!” exclaimed Mycroft and made a notation.

“I do have one problem though,” Greg said.

Mycroft looked up from his notes. “Yes?”

“Well…what’s my motivation?”

“Your…motivation?” asked Mycroft.

“Yeah,” Greg started. “I mean, I get it. Bianca’s this hot bit of fluff, lotsa blokes sniffing around, but she can’t get married until they pawn off her great cow of a sister on someone, right?

“Yes, that’s basically it,” said Mycroft. “What’s not to understand?”

“Well, why would she want to get married? Seems to me like the birds back then got treated like rubbish. Can’t own anything. Property of their husbands. Have to do what they say. I don’t get why she’d be so all fired-up to tie herself to some arsehole who’ll just be telling her what to do, and can knock her about any time he feels like it. Doesn’t make sense. Seems like old Katherina’s got the right idea.”

Mycroft, Sherlock and John simply stared at him. Then John said, “Who are you, and what have you done with Greg Lestrade?”

“I’ve been talking to Anthea a bit down the pub, haven’t I? About women’s rights. She likes talking about that rubbish. Guess some of it stuck in my brain.”

“Well unstick it!” snapped Mycroft. “I don’t need social commentary from you Gregory, simply a decent performance. Perhaps young Anthea has too much leisure time!”

“That’s not helping my motivation! I can’t get into character, can I?” Greg replied.

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but John cut him off, holding up a hand. “I’ll take this Mycroft.” He turned to Greg.

“Well Greg, morality was very different back then. Unless a woman married, there would be no…roasting the broomstick, you see?”

“Ohhhhhhh!,” cried Greg. “So…no feeding the kitty at all, without the old ring on your finger?”

“Exactly!” John said.

“Gotcha. Well that makes perfect sense then. Thanks John.”

John turned to Mycroft with raised eyebrows. Not so thick after all, eh?

“Moving on,” announced Mycroft, “we have Katherina and Bianca’s father, Baptista, That will be Nigel.”

“You cast Crack as our father?” cried Sherlock.

Mycroft didn’t look up from his notes. “NIGEL has a lovely baritone speaking voice, and exceptional elocution, especially for a plumber. And I have instructed our Costume Master to make sure that his belt is fastened extremely tightly, so there won’t be any…slippage.”

He continued on. “Reverend Arthur will be our Lucentio. That’s your leading man, Greg.”

“He’s okay,” agreed Greg. “bit of a weak chin, but nice eyes.”

“Which brings us to Bianca’s other suitors, Gremio and Hortensio, who will be played by Gary and Geoffrey.”

“Like they’d have a shot,” muttered Greg.

“And finally,” Mycroft said, “Clive will be our Grumio. The Fool. I understand Clive did some, what they call Stand-up comedy, before becoming an iron worker. That should do.”

“Unless he was crap,” John pointed out. 

“No, no. I had him tell me a joke. I didn’t get it, of course, but the rest of the gentlemen seemed to find it hilarious. Something about a G-spot and a golf ball.”

Greg snorted, and John covered his mouth to hide a smile. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“That’s everything then. Everyone else is either background or crew.” Mycroft smiled and flipped the binder closed with satisfaction!

“Now there’s something I’d like to bring up, if I may.” Sherlock said.

“Yes, brother-mine?”

“While you’re busy playing director, and the rest of us are bumbling about spouting this codswallop and making complete berks of ourselves, what are we doing about Molly?”

“Molly?” asked Mycroft. “What has she to do with anything?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “The proposal. The whole reason we’re in this idiotic mess to begin with!”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Sherlock had forgotten for a moment that Mycroft knew nothing about the events preceding his return from his sex holiday, or the fact that there wasn’t really supposed to BE any benefit to begin with. Bloody John and his great chapped lips! And Mrs. Hudson and her interfering ways! And the bleeding Tanorexics! Well, he certainly wasn’t going to tell Mycroft the truth now. He’d never hear the end of it. He modulated his tone. “I just don’t want to lose sight of the fact that I’ve still got that blasted engagement ring kicking about. And it needs to be on Molly Hooper’s finger, sooner rather than later. I want to get married!”

Greg rolled his eyes.

"Oh! Of course,” said Mycroft. “But that’s all worked out. Didn’t I tell you? I could have sworn I mentioned it.” He opened the binder and referred back to his notes.

“No Mycroft, you didn’t mention it. And what do you mean it’s all worked out?” Sherlock asked, exasperated.

Mycroft sighed and removed his pince-nez, rubbing at his sore eyes. “Who do you think you are dealing with here, Sherlock? An amateur? I’ve multi-tasked. Killed two birds with one stone. We’ll be using the production as a conduit, as it were, to getting you and Dr. Hooper affianced. Very efficient.”

“And how are we doing that?” John ventured to ask.

“Well,” Mycroft began, "it occurred to me that women, foolish creatures, are simply mad for actors! Why even Elizabeth, as sensible as she is, gets positively giddy any time that Liam Neeson person appears on the tele. It’s nauseating really. The man is so…unrefined and brutish. Not to mention an Irishman. And way she positively leers at his backside…”

“Mycroft!” cried Sherlock, his patience waning.

“Yes, yes, I’m getting to it,” snapped Mycroft. “After your brilliant performance as Katherina, Dr. Hooper will be positively enchanted. How could she not be? The lights. The crowd. The applause.”

“The dress. The wig,” offered John.

“He looks just like a young Vanessa Redgrave!” insisted Mycroft. “After the performance, there is to be a reception. We’ll get you changed into your evening wear. Dr. Hooper will already be in a lovely gown, or Anthea can say goodbye to her next increase, and we’ll whisk the two of you away to a Romantic spot, where she will be unable to resist you, due to your…magnetism. Very simple.”

“Hmmmmmmmm.” Sherlock muttered. It could work.

“But what if he’s crap?” asked Greg. “What if everyone laughs and points, and he looks like a big girl’s blouse? What then?”

“Well then, he gets the sympathy vote, doesn’t he? We’ll count on Dr. Hooper’s tender heart. Either way, it can’t miss.” He turned to Sherlock. “But you better not be crap!”

********************

The next afternoon.

221A Baker Street

Three women sat around Martha Hudson’s kitchen table, sipping cups of tea, nibbling on homemade biscuits and giving progress reports.

“Well, I have to say, Huds, “ began Anthea, “I didn’t believe it would work, but they’re all running around like a bunch of mental patients on holiday.”

“Of course they are!” said Mrs. Hudson, dipping a biscuit into her tea. “Didn’t I tell you? This little show is a gift from the gods! Just what we needed to keep them all busy and out of our hair while we work out our plan. Also, it’s going to be scream! Like Keeping Up Appearances meets the Vicar of Dibley. I could hear Sherlock and John working on their lines the other day. Absolutely dreadful. Especially John! No savoir faire or sense of timing at all. Poor Sherlock. He really is trying his best to sell it, even with that albatross around his neck. And I must say, I saw him in the wig the other morning, and he looks just like a young Vanessa Redgrave. Dead sexy he was. You should keep that in mind for the future Molly. Role-playing can really spice things up in a marriage, especially after a few years when the old noodle doesn’t spring to attention like it used to.”

Mrs. Hudson turned back to Anthea. “How are things going with Greg?” Mrs. Hudson prompted.

Anthea blew out a breath. “Brilliant, actually. I have him totally off-balance. The poor git doesn’t know what’s up or down. I keep agreeing to dates, and we’ve been out to the pub three times for drinks after rehearsal. I’m sticking to the plan, just like we discussed. Though I’ve exhausted my conversation on women’s rights, I'm afraid. I did let it slip how I think having to shave your legs is a crime against nature, and how much I enjoy doing the maintenance work on my car. I’ve even let him catch me winking at the barmaids. Actually, I’m starting to feel bad about leading them on. And, the whole time I’m doing that, I’m also squeezing his thigh under the table.” She turned to Molly. “It’s really nice too. He’s fit! All hard muscle.” She turned back to Mrs. Hudson. “Honestly, I’m desperate for a shag. You should smell the cologne he wears! It’s driving me mad.”

“Never mind that, missy,” scolded Mrs. Hudson. “There will be plenty of time for jiggery pokery once we get our dear Molly engaged. Until then, you keep your legs crossed, and think like Gertrude Stein.”

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. “Now what about old stuffy pants? Our director.” 

Anthea brightened significantly at this. “Oh, that’s going along swimmingly. He’s totally obsessed with the production. Can't focus on anything else. Why all I’ve had to do is drop a few names here and there, MacKellan, Olivier, you know. I brought up Kenneth Branaugh and got a twenty minute lecture on how he’s Gone Hollywood. Honestly, I’m stroking his ego so hard it’s a wonder I don’t have carpal tunnel. And I’m being run off my feet with fittings! Have you ever tried to get a pack of plumbers and iron workers into tights? It’s not pretty.“

Anthea turned to Molly. “What about you Mols? Everything okay on your end?”

Molly nodded glumly. “I’ve hardly seen Sherlock at all. If he’s not on a case, he’s rehearsing. If he’s not rehearsing, he’s helping the other League members at the theater, building sets and I don’t know what! I came by yesterday, just to pop in and give him a snog before I went to work, and he wouldn’t even let me into the flat! Said he was trying to get into character, and I was a distraction!”

“That’s just as well Molly,” assured Mrs. Hudson. “We don’t want him peaking too early! Nothing worse than a premature eruption. You have nothing to worry about. We’ve planned everything for the evening of the performance. Sherlock will be in quite the right state of mind. There’s nothing like being up in front of a crowd to get the adrenaline flowing, mark my words. The thrill of the applause, the catcalls! He’ll be primed and ready to go off. Everything is taken care of. Every contingency planned for. Once the performance ends, and the gentlemen have all changed into their evening clothes, Sherlock is going to get a call, requesting his presence at a certain location. A car will be provided. When he gets to this location, the car will be waiting, with you in it, and you’ll be taken to a most Romantic spot. Trust me when I say that Sherlock will be so het-up by that point, it will be a wonder if he can make it to our destination before popping the question. You may need to distract him until you reach the location.”

“How am I to do that?” Molly asked.

Mrs. Hudson raised her brows. “Sex of course. If you’re shagging him in the back of the car, he won’t have the breath to speak, let alone propose. Not if you’re doing it correctly. I’ll give you some tips, shall I? Do you do kegels? And you better keep a hand over his mouth, just in case. Is he a talker? I usually like that, but best to be safe.” She tittered. “I find that car sex is especially stimulating. The added motion, you know.”

And that was too much information. “Where will we be going then?” Molly asked. 

“Sherlock and Mycroft’s childhood home, dear. It’s perfect.”

That actually was perfect. It was a gorgeous, cozy house with a fireplace, and there was a very romantic garden that Wanda Holmes tended herself. “Oh, but I wouldn’t want to put them out!”

“Put them out!” cried Mrs. Hudson. “They’ll be doing cartwheels! Both their sons married. To women! Besides, they won’t even be there, Molly dear. They’ll be here, of course, seeing their sons and their friends perform Shakespeare!”

Oh dear god. She’d invited Sherlock’s parents.

“You just be a good girl now, and do as you’re told, and in two weeks you’ll be engaged, poor dear, to our Sherlock, and we’ll all be happily planning your wedding.” 

At that chilling thought, Molly announced, “We’re eloping.”

Mrs. Hudson broke into peals and peals of merry laughter. “Oh, my dear child, I give you leave to try.”


	7. TOTS for TSB - Week 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's downhearted. The rehearsal goes...not so well. Mycroft gets happy news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter. Please enjoy. This is great fun to write. I promised myself I would not include great swaths of Shakespeare's dialogue, and I have kept that promise. If you want to see Taming of the Shrew, I suggest you rent the film :).
> 
> All mistakes are mine. My apologies to Sherlock, The Bard, and tan people everywhere. I own nothing but my own twisted sense of humor.

Week Two

221 Baker Street

Molly Hooper pushed quietly through the front door of Baker Street. She paused and listened. Nothing. She knew John was at Surgery, and Mrs. Hudson was babysitting Rosie. As this was their time to take the air in the park, Molly felt safe to come calling. 

She was also very vexed.

Over the past two weeks, there seemed to be some sort of conspiracy to keep she and Sherlock from spending even five minutes alone in each other’s company. Molly knew that she was supposed to be trying to keep Sherlock from a “premature eruption,” but she could barely even give him a kiss on the bloody cheek before someone intervened, and either one or both of them were called away on “urgent business.” There had been no conversation. There had been no kisses. And definitely no shagging. She was feeling quite frustrated and grouchy, and it was beyond enough! She wanted to be engaged to Sherlock. Of course she did! And she was looking forward to the romantic setting, and Sherlock going down on one knee, and mostly the car shagging, but at the moment she thought she’d trade all of it for the Sewage Treatment Facility or the Larvae Exhibition, if they could only spend some time together. 

The most she had gotten from Sherlock over the past week-and-a-half were a series of random texts. Some were the usual, “Need the fecal samples STAT” or “Don’t let Anderson near the brain!” But others were odd. These, she assumed, were sent from rehearsal. Things like, “Corset too tight. Can’t breathe!” or “John looks horrid in tights. Legs like bangers. Must stop biscuits!” or “Mycroft’s head exploding,” which could mean anything. 

Odder still, he kept sending her…jokes. Just the jokes. No punchlines. “Why does Father Christmas have such a large sack?” “What’s the difference between a pregnant woman and a lightbulb?” “Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl go to the bathroom?” and on and on. It took Molly a half a day to realize that the other men were probably taking the piss, most likely egged on by Clive, the former stand-up comic, and that Sherlock was asking HER to provide the punchlines. She turned off her phone. What was Greg for after all?

As there was no sound coming from either John’s or Mrs. Hudson’s flat, Molly tip-toed silently up the stairs to 221B. It wouldn’t do to let Sherlock know she was coming, or he’d find an excuse to get rid of her. “Getting into character, my Aunt Fanny,” she grumbled as she reached the door to 221B. Something was going on. He was avoiding her. Had he changed his mind? Perhaps he was simply embarrassed about this bloody debacle of a benefit. Damn Mrs. Hudson and her interfering ways! And damn the bloody Tanorexia Society of Britain. The orange bastards!

********************

Inside 221B, Sherlock was pacing the room and reciting lines of dialogue at top speed. He knew them by heart of course, but he was now learning John’s part as well as his own. Just in the case John froze, a real possibility, and he had to do them both.

He affected a high girlish tone for Katherina, and a low gravely one for Petruchio, much like a child playing “You must pay the rent! But I can’t pay the rent!” He was wearing a long reg wig. Itchy! He also had a sheet wrapped around his waist mimicking a frock. Mycroft had forbid him taking his actual costume home to practice in. “You’ll wrinkle it Sherlock. We can’t have that!” Sherlock took a brief moment to picture strangling Mycroft with the red wig, and felt a bit better. 

How could he have gotten himself into this mess? He and his big lying gob, that’s how. He was truly regretting not just telling Mrs. Hudson the truth, living with the humiliation, and letting her spill the beans to Molly. Perhaps Molly would have taken over and proposed to HIM. She’d likely do a better job of it. It was unfair sometimes, being a man, no matter what Greg said. He caught a look at himself in the glass. Not much of a man right now, however. Though Mycroft was right. He did look a bit like a young Vanessa Redgrave. 

There was a knock at the door. Sherlock looked at himself in the glass again. He couldn’t get caught by a client like this. Not again. He’d forgotten the wig only the once, but it seemed as though a detective in drag did not inspire confidence, and he didn’t want to get a reputation. John, of course, had found it hilarious, the wanker. Well, he looked better in his wig and frock than John did in those execrable tights! Turned out John didn’t have the legs for them after all.

“Who is it?” He called out.

There was a pause.

“Sherlock? It’s Molly! Can I come in?”

Blast! Molly. He wasn’t supposed to be alone with Molly. Mycroft was afraid that he’d take one look at Molly’s dear little face and blurt out a proposal willy-nilly, ruining all their plans. And he was right to be scared. Every time Sherlock saw Molly, he felt the urge bubbling up inside to throw himself at her feet and beg her to marry him. But if he did that, he’d bugger everything up, and this entire farce would be for naught. No! It would be the romantic garden or nothing! Besides, he and Eurus had just completed the concerto, and he wasn’t going to waste it! 

Must get rid of her!

“Molly! What a surprise.” He called through the door. “Unfortunately, I’m on the way out to rehearsal. What a shame! And I’m very late. Mycroft will be terribly cross. I’ll catch up with you later, shall I?“

There was a long pause. Then a very soft, “okay then.”

It sounded so forlorn, that Sherlock felt a searing pain go through his chest. 

He ran toward the door, yelling, “Molly, wait!” only remembering at the last minute how he was dressed, and slipping on the sheet. He ripped it away, yanking off the wig and heaving it behind him, Mycroft be damned, as he pulled open the door.

And there she was. His beautiful Molly. She wore her long hair down. It hung almost to her waist now. She had been growing it out for him, because he had asked her not to cut it. She wore just a hint of makeup, and her most ghastly striped jumper. The one he loved to tease her about. She looked radiant. So lovely! But what she didn’t look was…happy.

“Hullo!” He greeted. 

She smiled at him, wanly. “Hullo Sherlock. I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re very busy with the play and rehearsals. I..I won’t keep you. It wasn’t anything important, really. I just wanted to come by and tell you…” she looked down at her feet, “tell you I love you.”

Oh. God. It wasn’t important!

“Molly, I’m so sorry.” Sherlock said, stricken. Oh why wasn’t he better at this?

Molly nodded her head, but she didn’t look up.

“Darling, look at me.” 

At “darling,” Molly’s head popped up, and she stared at him wide-eyed. It wasn’t like Sherlock to use words of endearment. He was more likely to call her “nincompoop” affectionately, than “sweetheart.”

“I miss you so much,” he admitted “and I know I’ve been acting like a complete cock. But can you trust me, if I ask you to be just a bit more patient? This blasted train-wreck will be over with in two weeks, and then we’ll be able to spend time together. Much more time, if I have my way.”

He was trying to tell her something.

Molly looked calmly back at him. “Alright, Sherlock. Of course I trust you. I’ll try and be patient. I know it’s silly, but I’ve gotten used to having you around, and us being together, you know? And past two weeks have been so…so…”

“Abysmal?” asked Sherlock with a small griin.

Bit by bit, Molly's smile grew, until it was full-on and sunny. With dimples. “Beastly!” she confirmed.

Sherlock: “Cheerless.”

Molly: “Dismal.”

Sherlock: “Excrutiating.”

Molly: “Forlorn.”

Sherlock: “Gloomy.”

Molly: “Hateful.”

“Oh bugger it!” Sherlock grabbed her, pulling her to him, and snogging the life out of her. 

All he could think was, “marry me, marry me, marry me.” Sod the play. Sod the moonlit garden and the bloody violin concerto. Sod the horrid little black box and the ring. He couldn’t wait anymore. He was asking her!

Sherlock pulled away from the kiss, and cupped her face in his hands. They were both breathing heavily. He dropped his forehead to hers, and then, “Molly Hooper, would you…”

And that’s when both of their phones blew up. Sherlock’s was blaring Mycroft’s SOS ring tone (Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries), and Molly’s, Mrs. Hudson’s (Prince’s Let’s Go Crazy).

They pulled apart and retrieved their phones.

“Mycroft,” said Sherlock. “I’m late for practice.”

Molly nodded. “Mrs. Hudson. She probably needs some help with Rosie.”

“Well…” said Sherlock, jabbing a thumb back over his shoulder, “I should probably…”

“Yeah,” Molly agreed. “Me too.”

Neither of them moved though. They just kept staring into each others' eyes. Sherlock leaned slowly down for one last kiss.

“Molly!!!” Mrs. Hudson’s yelled up the stairs, at full volume. “Come help me with the pram! This instant!”

Sherlock leaned back, sighing. He held out his hand. “I’ll see you in two weeks then, Dr. Hooper?”

Molly reached out to shake. “Looking forward to it Mr. Holmes.”

 

********************

Later that afternoon.

The Little Theatre

The theater was a hive of activity. Men were up on ladders, painting and hammering. Actors in full Shakespearian garb were wandering the stage, or loitering about in groups, going over lines.

Mycroft Holmes sat, dead center, a few rows back from the front of the stage, watching his two leads completely butcher Taming of the Shrew.

John and Sherlock had made it through approximately one page of Katherina’s and Petruchio’s dialogue, the famous “wasp” scene, where Katherina and Petruchio’s first meet. This one page had taken over twenty minutes to get though, with many fits and starts, as John, the great blockhead, couldn’t seem to remember two lines of dialogue without prompting from their “script girl,” Sidney, one of the Highballers. Poor Sidney was quite put out with John. And, frankly, so was Mycroft.

This famous scene, punctuated by an extraordinary display of verbal wit, and use of lurid sexual puns, was being performed by John and Sherlock as if they were schoolboys asked to read, out loud to the class, an essay on the principal exports of Britain. Sherlock seemed to be holding his own, but John was particularly dreadful.

“No, no no!” Mycroft cried. “Stop right there! What the devil was that?” Mycroft got up from his seat, strode down the aisle, and vaulted onto the stage

“What?” said John, “we’re doing the scene.”

“You are slaughtering the scene,” corrected Mycroft. “What’s wrong, John? You assured me that you memorized the lines.”

“Well I did memorize them, didn’t I?” John returned shortly, itching at his tights. “I just can’t seem to remember them all in the right order. This tripe makes no sense.”

“It’s Shakespeare!” said Mycroft irritably. “It’s not supposed to make sense.”

Mycroft turned to look down at his brother, who was wearing his red wig and dress, and was squatting on the stage. “You’re doing a bit better Sherlock, but you look rather stiff.”

“Mycroft. I’m in a corset and frock, duck-walking around the stage. My back is killing me. I need to stand!”

“No! You’re far too tall. It will look ridiculous.”

Sherlock demonstrated his waddling duck-walk across the set. “Oh, and I suppose this looks like a picture!”

Mycroft’s mouth turned mulish. 

“Let him get up!” yelled their diminutive stage manager, Keith. “Some men like tall birds!”

There was a grumbling of agreement from the various rotund and tights-clad men on the stage. “He looks a treat!” one of them yelled.

“He looks ridiculous crawling around like that, Mike,” called Greg, who was currently half-way up a ladder, painting a set. He was wearing his street clothes and a long blonde wig. “No one’s going to pay attention to the height difference. Not while their holding their breath to see if John can get a line out without muffing it!”

“Yeah thanks for that, Sweetheart,” John called back, giving him the two-fingered salute.

Greg just blew him a kiss and went back to painting.

“Oh they’re right! Sherlock get up! We’re only wrinkling your frock, and we’ve got bigger problems! Wardrobe!”

One of the Holy Rollers, Martin, came scurrying from backstage with a steamer, and began ironing Sherlock’s frock of wrinkles and creases.

“What to do, what to do?” Mycroft mumbled to himself, as he paced the stage.

“I could do both voices,” offered Sherlock. “I know the lines. John could just stand there and…gesticulate. Like a ventriloquist’s dummy!”

John kicked at him, but his progress was halted by his tights, and he made a “Ooof” noise and grabbed his privates. “These things are too bloody tight!”

“It’s not the tights, John,” Sherlock said laughing. “It’s the biscuits.” 

“Oh go f…”

“Gentlemen!” cried Mycroft. “If you could only put such passion into your performances, we’d be much farther along.” He resumed pacing. “No, Sherlock, I really don’t think you could do both voices. People might see your lips moving. We’ll get cue cards, hide them all over. That should solve it.” He turned to John. “Just read them! And no more biscuits. The budget doesn’t run to any more tights. If you split those, you’re on your own.”

Mycroft walked to the edge of the stage, hopped off gracefully and walked up the aisle to resume his seat. “Again!” he cried. “From the top!”

There was a collective groan from not only his actors, but from the extras and crew as well.

“Might I remind you all,” said Mycroft snippily, “that this is a benefit! We’re not doing this for our health, you know. We doing it for all the Tanorexics out there. They’re counting on us. Just look at them!”

Mycroft gestured stage right, where a huge poster was displayed on an easel. Cyril had dropped it by a few days ago. It pictured that young man, standing center like a lily, surrounded by a group of men and women of all ages and nationalities that had one thing in common. They all had complexions that resembled nothing more closely than Al Jolson at his most offensive, or extras from a 1930’s film about cannibals in the jungles of Africa. Each one had his or her hands raised, displaying their orange palms. Across the top of the poster, “We are Orange, We are Everywhere.”

Reverend Arthur, who had been holding Greg’s ladder steady, crossed himself.

All the other men visibly cringed. The poster was repulsive and grotesque. And it fit right in with the rest of the proceedings.

*********************

That evening.

The Pub

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s going swimmingly!” Mycroft made this delusional announcement as he sat back in complete relaxation and downed a sip of lager.

“Mycroft,” John said, “I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but we’re horrible. Abysmal. Putrid. Shakespeare is rolling in his grave.”

“I think I’m terrific,” said Greg, as he threw back a swallow of beer.

This was actually the truth. Out of all of them, and they were all rank, Greg rose above the crowd like an ascending star. Put him in a dress and a wig and apparently he turned into Dame Judi Dench. He was so good, that he made the rest of them look even worse.

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock, and jerked his head toward Mycroft, his message clear…you try! “Mycroft,” Sherlock started. “We’re supposed to do this bloody thing in two weeks. Half the Swirly’s and none of the Ball and Chains know their lines. The Highballs show up pissed half the time. If it weren’t for the Holy Rollers and the Proctos, we’d be sunk."

“And poor Crack looks like a tomato in that red jerkin,” said John sympathetically. 

“Nonsense!” said Mycroft waving away their concerns. “It’s always like this in the weeks before a big performance. Things will come together. Trust me.”

Sherlock and John both looked glumly into their pints.

“And I have very good news for you Sherlock. I’ve found the perfect location for your proposal to Dr. Hooper.”

Sherlock looked up. “You have? Where?”

Mycroft looked very pleased with himself. “I thought about it long and hard, and I realized you’d probably do best somewhere you were comfortable. So, I’ve arranged everything for the night of the performance at Mummy and Father’s! Their garden is perfect! It’s small and lovely. Mummy’s roses should be in full bloom, and there’s that little bench, perfect for wooing.”

Sherlock thought about this. “Well, yes, it is very nice there, Mycroft, but I think I might feel a bit uncomfortable, knowing Mummy or Father could blunder upon us at any moment. Might sour the mood a bit to have one’s parents interrupt a…romantic moment.”

“Yeah,” agreed Greg. “Nothing like Mum pounding on the door to make you lose your pokey!”

“Thank you Greg.” Mycroft said dryly.

He turned back to Sherlock. “That won’t be a problem Sherlock, of course. They won’t even be there.”

“They won’t?” asked Sherlock.

“They’ll be here watching the performance,” Mycroft replied as if this were obvious.

“You invited our parents?!” Sherlock cried, horrified. 

“Of course! They’d be ever so hurt if we excluded them. And you know how they love good theater.” Mycroft replied.

“Yes Mycroft,” Sherlock retorted. “GOOD theater. Oh I’ll never live this down. Father will never let me forget it. He’ll be calling me Shirley from now on. Every holiday! Oh, this is the worst thing you’ve ever done to me!”

“Well I like that!” replied Mycroft. “All I’ve done is arranged the perfect proposal! And taken your benefit in hand, I might add. Was it my idea to put on Taming of the Shrew? No. You insisted. You and John had your hearts set on it. Well, don’t look for my help again after this, for you shan’t have it!”

John suddenly burst into gales of slightly hysterical laughter.

Sherlock was incensed! “What is so funny? This is all your fault, you know. You and your bloody chapped lips!”

“Chapped lips?” Mycroft said to Greg.

“Don’t ask,” Greg advised. “Best not to know.”

“Yoo hoo!” called a voice from across the pub. “Boss!”

The four men turned to see Anthea Jones making their way toward them. She was dressed exactly like Diane Keaton in Annie Hall. A pair of men’s trousers and jacket, and a natty tie. Her hair was pulled up and hidden under a jaunty hat.

“Anthea?” said Mycroft, as she made her way to the table. “What are you doing here? You know it’s my night with the lads!”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” she huffed out a laugh. “You know me. One of the boys.” She nodded at Sherlock and John, then turned a huge smile on Greg. “Hi Greg! Okay?” 

Greg appeared mesmerized. John elbowed him, still giggling. “Oh, yeah. Hi Anthea. You look smashing!”

Anthea’s smile got broader and she licked her lips.

“Anthea!” Mycroft said irritably, breaking up that repugnant little exchange.

“Oh, right. The missus, that is Lady Elizabeth, sent me to fetch you.”

“Is everything alright?” Mycroft asked, alarmed.

“Everything is fine, boss,” said Anthea. “It’s just that she wanted you to know that she thinks Lady Felicity Clover has gone into heat! She didn’t want you to miss it.”

“Lady Felicity Clover?” said Greg.

“One of my bitches!” exclaimed Mycroft. “Oh this is the best news! Thank you, Anthea. I’ll need the car right away!”

Anthea tipped her hat to the men and was off.

“I’m so sorry lads, I must run.” He pulled out a few bills and dropped them on the table. “This is on me! I’ll see you all at rehearsal tomorrow! Don’t be late!” 

“But Mycroft…” started Sherlock.

“We’ll figure it out later, Sherlock. When your bitch is in heat, there’s no time to waste!” Then he was off, at a dead run.

“Well, said Greg, sighing. “Aren’t those the truest words he’s ever spoken.” He turned to John and Sherlock. “What do you say the three of us poor bastards try our hand at some darts?”


	8. TOTS for TSB - Week 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Less than a week to go, and everyone has an excess of "spirits."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there! The week running up to the performance!
> 
> Thank you all for continuing to read, and for your wonderful comments. They are truly appreciated.
> 
> Again, I own nothing but the errors!

Week three.

The Mycroft and Lady Elizabeth Holmes Estate

Less than a week to go until the big performance, and, as Mycroft had promised, things were coming together…ish. Though the bowling league benefit production of Taming of the Shrew was still atrocious, most of the actors had learned their lines, and were able to spout them and get themselves to the correct places on stage without falling over. That was really the best that could be said of them. But, they would probably be able to get through it. The addition of cue cards, stage left and stage right, as well as tacked and sewn discretely to the front and back of several of the extras costumes, had assured that John would remember his lines, and get them out in the right order. Most of the time. John’s performance was more Mark Wahlberg than Laurence Olivier, but since this was better than even Mycroft had hoped for, they were dealing with it. Mycroft was counting on the fact that no one would notice how foul his Petruchio was, because they would all be too busy staring at Sherlock. Sherlock’s version of Katherina wasn’t much better, and the high girlish voice he affected was an abomination, but he looked…like a goddess. Earlier in the week they had a run-through in full costume and makeup, and Sherlock looked so luminous that he disrupted the rehearsal, as the other men stood around gawping at him like gormless drones. This irritated Sherlock, who wanted to be taken seriously, and not rely on his sex appeal, but Mycroft would take it. 

The brightest spot, of course, was Greg. He was able to affect a smooth, cultured tone of voice, walk delicately like a perfect young lady, and emote on cue. He looked like a cross between Gwyneth Paltrow and Jason Statham in his frock and wig, and though he was occasionally caught scratching at his bottom, even this didn’t even bother Mycroft, he was that good. 

The backstage crew were working like clockwork. Keith was a dream as a stage manager, barking orders through his headset, and managing to get the actors on stage for their cues. Graham, the largest and most muscular of the men, a Swirly, had been brought on as Mycroft’s “enforcer.” His job was to keep the actors cowed, and break up any fights that broke out backstage. This occurred on a daily basis, as the Swirlys, Ball and Chains and Highballers tended toward “taking the piss,” and were a experiencing an excess of what Mrs. Hudson would call “spirits” the closer they came to opening night. More than one black eye or broken bone had been averted by Graham’s sharp eye. The Holy Rollers had provided Mycroft with an excellent hair and makeup person, a Mr. Finster, who was apparently their go-to undertaker, and had a dab hand with mascara and hot rollers.

On a more personal note, Mycroft had not one, but two bitches in heat! Both Lady Felicity Clover and The Duchess of Fernanda had entered this delicate state. His stud, Sir Kendrick Tilden, could hardly contain himself, and had to be penned up when not performing his duties, as he tended to hump the furniture, the staff, and even Mycroft’s legs. The amount of dog hair was exasperating, but hopefully the results would be fruitful.

Mycroft lay on his back on the sofa, his head pillowed comfortably in his wife’s lap, as she rubbed his temples. “Oh my poor darling!” said Lady Elizabeth soothingly. “You take too much upon yourself! Really dear, between the coup in Moldova, the guerrilla interrogations, the rehearsals, and helping out dear Sherlock, I hardly see you anymore!” 

Mycroft lifted a hand to pat his wife’s cheek. “I know sweetling. It’s a very busy time right now.” He sighed heavily. “I think we’ve got the coup well in hand, and there will always be guerrillas to interrogate, won’t there? But the benefit will be over in a week, and hopefully Sherlock and Dr. Hooper will be taken care of as well. Then we’ll have much more time together. I confess, I find this whole production very wearisome! Sherlock and John practically begged for my assistance, but now, per usual, they are being their difficult selves. Really, I don’t know why I bother.”

Lady Elizabeth laughed at this. “Because, my heart, Sherlock is your little brother, and you want him to be happy. You love him.”

“Mmmmmmmmm,” replied Mycroft. “Well, I suppose I do. But, mark my words, if Sherlock manages to blunder his way through a proposal, and Dr. Hooper is mad enough to accept him, I’m staying out of the wedding plans. No matter how they beg for my advice. I am through.”

Lady Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, dear.”

Mycroft sat up at this and turned to face his wife. “I’m serious! Let them ask Martha Hudson to plan it! She’ll be dying to poke her big nose into it, and bugger it all up! Let’s see how they like that!”

“Oh leave Martha alone, Mycroft!” replied Lady Elizabeth. “She didn’t do too bad of a job with us, did she? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous of her. She does have a very calculating mind. I’ve often thought of offering her a position on my staff.”

“You wouldn’t!” Mycroft cried, horrified.

Lady Elizabeth giggled, and patted her husband’s hand. “No. I wouldn’t dare. You two in the same office? Plotting against each other. I shudder to think.”

Mycroft released a sigh of relief, and bent to pour a fresh cup of tea. 

“Besides, I’m thinking of cutting back a bit.”

“Really?” asked Mycroft at this astonishing statement. His wife loved her job. And she was very good at it. She could make a grown man wee his pants at fifty yards with just a look. God, he loved her!

“I think so,” she confirmed. “After all, with all the attention our two young ladies have been getting from their suitor, I think we’ll be expecting a happy event sooner rather than later. I’d like to be around more for that. Girls need their Mummy at these times you know.”

“Ah, yes,” said Mycroft with satisfaction, putting down his cup. “And speaking of attention from suitors…” He reached over and pulled his wife onto his lap.

“Mycroft!” she cried, giggling.

“Sir Kendrick isn’t the only one feeling a bit randy lately! Must be something in the air!”

********************

The next afternoon.

Greg Lestrade’s flat

Anthea collapsed against Greg’s chest with a groan, their sweaty, naked bodies pressed tightly together. There was silence for bit, broken only by the sound of their heavy breathing.

After a few moments, Anthea crossed her arms on Greg’s chest, and propped her chin on them, regarding him with a look of wonder. “That was absolutely fan-fucking-tastic shagging Greg Lestrade.”

Greg grinned full out at her, and wiggled his eyebrows. “You made me wait long enough. I was beginning to doubt my animal magnetism.”

Anthea regarded him and ran her fingers through his chest hair. “Yeah, sorry about that. It was definitely worth the wait though. But I am in so much trouble. Damn you and that bloody cologne.”

Greg tilted his head at her. “Mrs. Hudson?”

Anthea started. “What? What do you mean?” She narrowed her eyes, and yanked his chest hair. Hard. “What do you know?”

Greg covered her hand on his chest, stopping her from ripping the hairs out by the root. “Ouch! Leave off! I don’t KNOW anything, do I? But, c’mon. This whole business has got Hudson written all over it. The benefit, the play, John and Sherlock acting like nutters, more than usual even, and you! You’ve been leading me a merry dance, keeping me at arms length, off-balance. She’s up to something. Some scheme. And you’re helping her! You’d better hope Mycroft doesn’t find out, or you’ll find yourself being made redundant. In more ways than one.”

“Greg,” Anthea said very seriously, “you can’t tell the boss anything! Not about us, and definitely not about Mrs. Hudson or her plans. You’ll ruin everything.”

“So there is something!” Greg said. “I knew it!”

“I promise I’ll tell you everything next week. After the benefit. But until then, you have to play dumb.” Anthea gave him a beseeching look.

“Well, that’ll be easy for me, won’t it?” Greg replied with a grin.

Anthea snorted. “I’m beginning to think you have hidden depths, Lestrade. Who would have thought?” Anthea turned her eyes to her wrist-watch. “Oh god!” She sat up, straddling Greg’s hips. “I have to go. I’m so late!”

Greg sat up as well, his arms going around her waist. “I don’t think so. Now I’ve got you, you’re not getting off that easy. You, Anthea Jones, are under arrest.”

“Oh really?” she replied saucily, looping her arms around his neck. “And what are the charges, Inspector?”

“Being too shaggable,” he answered and flipped them, so that Anthea was on her back, and he was hovering over her. “Don’t make me use the cuffs.” He leaned down and kissed her.

As he pulled away, Anthea sighed, giving in. “Oh alright. I suppose I can cry off just this once.” She ran one of her hands down Greg’s chest, and lower, making his eye close. “Greg?”

“Mmmhmm?”

“Will you wear the wig this time?”

Greg’s eyes popped open. “I love you.”

********************

The same afternoon.

221A Baker Street

Molly and Mrs. Hudson sat at her kitchen table, drinking cups of tea. They were minding Rosie Watson, who had been banished from her father’s flat. Sherlock and John were, again, rehearsing their scenes for the upcoming benefit, and Rosie, who was obviously a theater critic in the making, tended to scream throughout the entire performance. She would also cry any time she saw Sherlock in his long red wig. 

Mrs. Hudson was very merry, seeing as all her plans would be coming to fruition in less than a week. And she was also very much enjoying the idea of Sherlock, John and Mycroft making complete arses of themselves in the process. She was vindictive that way. She felt they had insulted her intelligence, and they were now getting their just comeuppance.

Molly, with her tender heart, felt terribly sorry for them all. And guilt was eating away at her. All this, so that Sherlock would be forced to propose to her in a traditional way! The way every other girl got engaged. Close to the way she had gotten engaged to Tom, in fact. Tom had taken her to a lovely restaurant, then on a carriage ride through the park. He had stopped the carriage at one point, at a romantic spot, and gotten down on one knee. She'd already had that kind of proposal, and look what had happened there. She wished with all her heart she could go back three weeks, but it was too late now. Now she’d just have to get through it, and hope that everyone’s dignity remained intact. 

“I just feel so guilty!” Molly admitted. “Sherlock is running around like a muppet. In a dress and wig! Oh it’s awful. How will I ever make it up to him?”

Mrs. Hudson snorted. “It’s nothing less than he deserves. Every time you feel guilty, just do what I do. Remember every horrible thing he’s ever done to you. Then picture him in the dress and wig. You’ll feel ever so much better, believe me!”

Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson’s phone chimed with an incoming text message. “That will be Anthea. Where the devil is that girl? She’s never late!”

Mrs. Hudson checked the text message on her phone. “Well I like that! She’s crying off. Says she had some important under-cover work she can’t get out of. Oh that Mycroft! Working the girl to death. I tell you, I don’t know how she can stand working for that tosser. But, she loves her job, and I suppose we don’t really need her today. We’re in a waiting period, aren’t we? Don’t look so glum, Molly. It’s less than a week now. You can hold out that long. Why you’ve gone years and years without it before, haven’t you? I’m surprised nothing closed up on you. Really, you’d think I was asking you to shave your head and join a convent! I had an Auntie who was a nun, you know. Father’s side of the family. Catholics. Very dour people. She never smiled. Wore that great black penguin costume. Scared the devil out of my sister and I. Though I suppose that was what she hired on for. In any case, she ended up leaving the church. I believe she went to work for the postal service after. I’m sure she fit right in with those sourpusses. I swear, I’ve never gotten a smile from one of them. Even after queuing up for an hour just to buy postage. I spent a lot of time at the postal when my late husband was alive. Always sending packages to the prison. How the men all begged for my ginger biscuits, the poor dears. Nothing good to eat on death row, you know. Not until the last day anyway. Where was I? Oh yes, you really must stop sulking Molly. You’ll have the rest of your life to spend with Sherlock, poor girl. Talk about a prison sentence! In any case, you’re worse than Rosie when I take away her dummy!"

Mrs. Hudson looked around for Rosie, who had been corralled in the front parlor, allowing her to crawl around at her pleasure, without being able to get into any trouble. When she looked over at her, the little cherub had the tea-ball clutched in one fat little hand, attempting to shove it down her throat.

“Rosie Watson!” cried Mrs. Hudson, leaping up from her chair. “Where did you get that, you little thief? I was sure I’d sent it down the disposal again. Really!”

Mrs. Hudson went to the child and picked her up, grabbing at her hand, trying to pry the tea-ball from out of her mouth. “Don’t swallow that!” The wrestling match that ensued lasted for a full minute, until Mrs. Hudson was able to wrench the tea-ball away from the child. This, of course, prompted a fit of wailing that would wake the dead.

“You just go see your Auntie Molly then, you bad girl! The two of you can sulk together. Oh my nerves, what a racket!” 

Mrs. Hudson plopped Rosie onto Molly’s lap, and brought the tea-ball to the sink to wash it. Unfortunately, it was slick with baby-spit, and she dropped it down the disposal. “Well,” she said philosophically, “I did just get a shipment of sherry from my sister. May as well break it out." On her way past the table, she grabbed two biscuits. One she handed to Rosie, the second she shoved into Molly’s mouth. “That ought to sweeten the two of you up! I swear I don’t know why I bother. No one appreciates what I suffer.”

Rosie’s tears had stopped, and she looked quizzically up at Molly with her big blue eyes, thoughtfully chewing on her biscuit. Molly swallowed her own biscuit, and kissed Rosie on the head. “She means well, love. It’s just that she’s completely barking mad. You’ll get used to it.”

********************

At the same time.

221C Baker Street.

John and Sherlock were not practicing their scenes. They had done so for approximately twenty minutes, then had given up when it became clear that John still couldn’t remember any of his lines in the right order. Without the cue cards he was hopeless. Instead, the two friends lounged on John’s comfy sofa with lagers and huge slices of cheese-on-toast that John had prepared. His specialty. It was very reminiscent of the old days in 221B when it was just the two of them after a case was solved, or on a quiet night when they looked through emails deciding on what new problem they would take on. It was nice. Comforting. The only thing missing, in fact, was the sound of Sherlock’s violin, but that particular item had already been shipped home to Mummy and Father’s awaiting it’s use, for Sherlock and Molly’s big night. Less than a week now.

“How do I get myself into these messes, John?” Sherlock asked, taking a sip of his lager.

John huffed out a laugh. “Because Sherlock, you have the incredible talent of taking something that should be very simple, and twisting it all up into knots. I think it’s that big brain of yours. You see everything as a problem to be solved with logic, when sometimes you just need to follow your heart. And also, you are a complete and utter lunatic. A better question would be, how do you manage to drag me along with you into all your messes? If you find the answer to that one, you let me know, yeah?”

Sherlock turned his head and regarded his best friend. “I already know the answer to that one, John.”

John raised his eyebrows at him, taking a bite of his cheese-on-toast.

“You come along willingly, because that’s the kind of friend you are. The kind of man you are. No matter how dangerous or ridiculous a situation I manage to get myself into, you are there with me every time because you’re my best friend, and you love me. Even though I am a bit of a madman, and not the most pleasant person to be around much of the time.”

John lowered his food back to he table and stared at his friend. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Sherlock went on, “about my life. How things were before I met you, and how things are now. Meeting you changed my life, John. You’ve stood at my back, like no one else ever has. You’ve forgiven me things, no one should have to forgive. You simply liked me, when I always thought I was completely unlikable. You gave me that. And then you gave me Mary. And Rosie. And now Molly. I’m not unaware that if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have any of what I have now. I wouldn’t be the man I am now. I wouldn’t be a man that Molly Hooper could love, or that could love her in return. You did that for me. And…I want you know how much I appreciate it. And that…I love you, too.”

John’s eyes were wet as he slid closer to Sherlock on the couch. He held up a hand. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kiss you again.” This broke the tension, and the two of them laughed. “Sherlock, that may all be true, what you said. But it’s also true that you saved me. I was in trouble, you know. Serious trouble, when I got back from the war. Didn’t fit in anywhere. Didn’t belong anyplace. Until I met you. You changed my life as well, mate. And despite everything, it’s been for the better.” 

They looked at each other. “Do we have to hug?” Sherlock asked. 

“Better not,” said John with a smile. “If we do, Mrs. Hudson’s bound to walk in.”

Sherlock got up from the sofa suddenly and began pacing the room, a bit agitated.

“What’s wrong now?” asked John. “We were having a moment.”

Sherlock returned and sat back down, facing John.

“John, there something I want to tell you. I’m feeling rather guilty about…”

“Sherlock,” John waved him off, “if this is about the play, don’t bother. I’m quite resigned to the humiliation. And anyway, it’s for a good cause. Sort of.”

“No. It’s not that, John. It’s something else. Something I’ve done. It’s not, bad exactly. Just a little…joke…but, well, I’m not sure how you’re going to take it,” Sherlock finished nervously.

“Sherlock,” John said exasperated, “I think I can take a joke. What did you do? Shrink my tights? Put itching powder in them? Because that would explain a lot.”

“No, no,” said Sherlock, “not that. That’s all you with your biscuit problem. And you probably need to exfoliate. No, this is more to do with your…blog.”

“My blog?” asked John, confused.

“Yes, well, funny story. I was home, very bored, one evening, so I decided to read your blog. And it was appalling as usual, but that particular evening I was very, very bored John, so…”

“Yes?” prompted John.

“I’m WnkrN@hat1978!” Sherlock exclaimed. Then waited for John’s reaction.

“You’re…what?”

“WnkrN@hat1978! From your blog. I let you think it was Mycroft. But it was really me.”

A moment of silence.

“So, what you’re telling me,” said John, “is that YOU have been posting on my blog, reviews of your own cases, and basically calling us both out to be charlatans and morons?”

“Well, basically, yes,” said Sherlock.

“And you did this because…” John prompted.

“Well, as I said, I was very bored, and your blog really is abysmal John, you must admit. And, I confess it’s rather juvenile, but I found it…sort of…hilarious, getting you all wound up.”

“Oh yes!” laughed John. “That was hilarious! All that anger. Those blood vessels bursting. All the effort put into disproving the theories of how we’d fudged the cases for self-aggrandizement. That was a scream!”

Sherlock sighed in relief. “Oh good. I’d hoped you see the humor in it.”

And that’s when John jumped on him.

********************

The night before the performance.

The Little Theater

Mycroft Holmes’ head was exploding.

He’d arrived at the Little Theater to find everything quite in its place. The sets were up. The lights ready for their cues. All the actors in costume and makeup, ready for the dress rehearsal. And his two leads were missing.

Even Greg didn’t know where they were. Greg, who was wandering around with a gormless smile on his face, like he had not a care in the world! It was fine for him! All the responsibility wasn’t on his shoulders, was it? What would he tell tell Cyril? And the Tanorexics! Sherlock and John had probably been kidnapped by some arch-villain, and were right now being dangled over a pool of piranhas! Oh it was just like them! Never thinking of anyone but themselves.

All of a sudden, Keith, the stage manager, came running up to him, breathing heavily and perspiring abundantly. “Keith! Do slow down. I don’t need you having a coronary on top of everything else! You must go on a diet, my boy. Reduce! And you a physician. You should know better!”

Keith took a few wheezing breaths. “Found….them….”

Mycroft grabbed Keith’s arm. Then snapped his hand back, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and began wiping Keith’s sweat from his person. “What did you say?”

“I found them, didn’t I?” Keith said between breaths. “They’ve been here the whole time! They’re back in the lounge. I think they’ve been hiding from you.”

“Hiding?!” exclaimed Mycroft. “Don’t they realize this isn’t the time for their usual jocularity? Why, even Greg’s here!”

“It’s not that, Mike” said Keith. “You’d better come see.”

********************

Five minutes later.

The Little Theater - Lounge

“How could you have done this to me?! To us! Do neither of you think of anyone but yourselves? This is a disaster. Oh everything is ruined!”

John and Sherlock sat side by side on the sofa in the lounge, arms crossed, looking like truculent school-boys.

Over them stood Graham, the enforcer, giving them both what Greg has deemed his “bollocks-shrinking” glare, or “the shrinker” for short. 

Mycroft paced around the room, pulling at his hair. He stopped and turned to Graham. “Why weren’t you watching them?”

Graham turned “the shrinker” on Mycroft, who had the sense to back up a few paces. “Was I supposed to follow them home? This didn’t happen under my watch! Showed up like this, they did. They were trying to hide it. Wearing sunglasses and hats. I never thought I’d have to worry about these two nancys getting into it. Thought for sure it’d be Clive that’d get himself clocked, taking the piss, the blighter.”

Mycroft turned his scowl back to John and Sherlock. “Well? What do you have to say for yourselves? Just look at you!”

It wasn’t a pretty sight. Sherlock had the makings of quite a shiner, as well as a split lip, and John’s nose was red, and swollen to twice its usual size.

“Why don’t you ask WnkrN@hat1978! here what happened?” snapped John. “He loves to run his gob.” 

“Oh John really! Do stop being such a drama queen. I apologized didn’t I? It’s not my fault your blog is so abominable that it lends itself to scathing review! The temptation was too much. I AM an addict, remember. Terrible impulse control. Get over it!.”

John turned to him. “Oh I’ll get over it…” He made another lunge for Sherlock, but was quickly grabbed and subdued by Graham. “Settle down there, doctor! I know he’s a knob, but remember he’s your best mate. Plus, old starchy drawers here will have a fit if you get any more banged up.”

“Starchy drawers!” exclaimed Mycroft.

"No disrespect, Mike” said Graham with a grin. “You’re a bit prissy, but you are an ace bowler, I’ll give you that.” 

Graham turned back to John and Sherlock. “Now, you two. Be good lads, and shake on it. Don’t be giving Mike here any more trouble. He’s that put out with you, and we got that orange lot coming tomorrow, counting on us. What do you say? Forgive and forget? That’s my motto.”

John and Sherlock both grumbled a bit, but then shook hands.

“I’m sorry I posted mean things on your horrible blog,” said Sherlock.

“And I’m sorry I head-butted you. Again,” offered John.

“There now!” said Graham, “that wasn’t so hard! I’ll just leave you to it then. Gotta go keep my eye on those Highballers. They’ve taken to following poor Crack around, calling him Mr. Tomato.” 

Once Graham had exited, Mycroft turned another glare on John and Sherlock. This one clearly said “For Shame!” Sherlock wondered if he hadn’t gotten one of the Holy Rollers to give him some tips.

“Now what am I to do with you?” he began. “You were barely passable before. I was counting on Sherlock’s pretty face to be a distraction.”

“Sorry Mycroft.” “Sorry brother.” John and Sherlock mumbled.

“Mmmmmmmmm,” began Mycroft, then yelled, “Keith!” at the top of his lungs. Keith appeared barely 3 seconds later, his headset dangling. “Yes, Mycroft?”

“Get me Mr. Finster.”

“Righto,” said Keith, and he was off again.

Mycroft resumed his pacing. “You realize Sherlock that you will now have to propose to Dr. Hooper with that face. If she finds you too horrible to accept, don’t come crying to me.”

“Bugger off, Mycroft.” said Sherlock. “You’re not worried about Molly. You’re worried about your damn play. I don’t know why you’re so upset. Who’s even going to come to see this horror-show? Aside from Mummy and Father. And don’t think I’ve forgotten I owe you for that one.”

Mycroft smiled his shark-like smile. “Don’t be so sure about that, Sherlock. We’re sold out.”

“What?!” cried Sherlock, at the same time John exclaimed, “No way!”

“Oh yes!” said Mycroft delightedly. "Between the Tanorexics, the other bowlers’ families and friends, and Greg’s boys from down the station, it was already a sizable audience. But then the Proctos apparently spread the word all over St. Bartholomew’s. You know how many fans you have there, Sherlock. Why I’ve had to turn people away.” Mycroft leaned in, “Standing. Room. Only.”

“Oh god,” said John, starting to hyperventilate. “It’ll be fine, John. Trust me, John. When will I ever learn?”

Sherlock was, for once, without words.

At this point, Mr. Finster arrived. “You wanted me, Mr. Holmes?”

“Ah yes,” Mycroft said, “Mr. Finster. Thank you. We have a bit of an issue with our Katherina and Petruchio. Seems these two naughty boys got into a bit of a scrap. They’ve quite ruined their faces. I wondered if you might be able to do something about it.” He gestured to Sherlock and John.

Mr. Finster took out a pair of spectacles and put them on. Then he went to the sofa and crouched down before Sherlock and John, studying their faces. He took a good long look at the damage, then turned to Mycroft. “Shouldn’t be too much of a problem, Mr. Holmes. I had a bloke once, got caught in the propeller of one of them speedboats. Did quite a job on his face. I had him looking just like his Secondary School photo when he was done. Pretty as a picture. His whole family said so. I should be able to handle this.”

“Very good!” said Mycroft.

“One thing though,” added Mr. Finster, “I’ll have to use heavier makeup. Maybe even some putty. It’ll be much more more drastic than we’ve done.”

“My dear fellow,” said Mycroft amiably, “I don’t care if you have to embalm them.”


	9. Neck and Neck, And Down the Stretch They Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick chapter to get you all ready for the big evening ahead. I'm away for the weekend, and it's snowing like the devil here! I'm going to settle in for some cozy writing. I hope to post the next chapter by Monday. It's getting a bit complicated so I'm taking my time :).
> 
> Thanks again for all the comments and kudos. Keep them coming. I love to hear what you all think.
> 
> Any mistakes herein belong to me. I own nothing, but a snow shovel and winter boots.

The day of the benefit.

221C Baker Street

Sherlock, John, Greg and Mycroft gathered at John’s flat for the final “bull-session” before the evening’s performance. Mycroft had several notes, which no one paid any attention to. Now they were finishing up.

“Everything is quite ready to go at the theater,” said Mycroft. “I believe Keith has everything well in hand with the crew. Cyril is sending several of his people over to be ticket-takers and ushers. All you lot have to do is show up, get in your costumes, and get your arses on stage when you’re told.” He looked around at the other men. “Do you think you can handle that without causing me any more undue anxiety? I’m not as young as I used to be, you know! And I have other responsibilities. A job! A wife! Bitches in heat! I can’t take any more of your shenanigans!” 

Mycroft turned to Greg. “Not you, Greg. You’re quite perfect.”

Greg smiled at this, and gave Sherlock and John a wink. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, and John gave Greg the two-fingered salute.

“We’ve promised, haven’t we?” said John irritably. “We’ll go to our execution like soldiers. I only wish it were going to be a quick and merciful death, like a firing squad.”

“Even hanging would be better.” agreed Sherlock.

“I’d take the electric chair.” John offered glumly.

Sherlock and John were particularly subdued today. For the dress rehearsal, Mr. Finster, that majesty of makeup, had indeed been able to cover the damage they had done to each other. However, the cosmetics that he’d had to employ to cover up their injuries were indeed “more drastic” than he’d used before. Sherlock, who had previously looked like a goddess, now more closely resembled a drag queen. It took almost a pound of heavy base to cover his black eye, and a dark red, paste-like lipstick to hide the split lip. Mr. Finster had “evened this out,” his words, with false eyelashes so garish and weighty that Sherlock was afraid he’d be unable to keep his eyes open. He appeared to be leering with half-closed lids at everyone he regarded. Poor Crack turned as red as his jerkin every time Sherlock so much as glanced in his direction. 

John hadn’t faired much better. Though the rest of his face was undamaged, his nose was still quite red and swollen. Mr. Finster had used his “putty” to form John a new, normally hued nose. However, though it wasn’t quite Cyrano de Bergerac huge, it was bordering on Gérard Depardieu. It was so large that John had trouble focusing on anything else, and often appeared cross-eyed. Mycroft had sent John home with the new appendage and a pot of glue, and told him to practice. John had glued it to himself so well, that he hadn’t been able to get it off since, and had resigned himself to simply wearing it until the production was over. 

The only one who seemed to like this change in appearance, was little Rosie, who was currently ensconced in her high chair with a teething biscuit to keep her busy. She would scream in glee any time her father came near her, and attempt to grab the new nose from his face, appearing to believe that this was some new and wonderful game they were playing. Since the appendage was glued very securely, and the nose underneath was still tender, this was extremely painful, and caused John to howl every time she did it. Unfortunately, this only seemed to egg the child on, if her screeches of delight were any indication. Sherlock thought she had never looked more like Mary.

“Well,” said Mycroft, “I believe that’s everything. I must get down to the theater. I expect you all there at least two hours before curtain to make sure you’re in your costumes and makeup, and ready to go on.” He turned a severe eye on John and Sherlock. “Do not make me have to come and find you. I assure you, you won’t like the results.” He rose and gathered some papers, preparing to leave.

Sherlock jumped up from his place on the sofa. “Just one minute, if you don’t mind! What about me?”

“You?” Mycroft asked, looking confused.

“Yes, me!” cried Sherlock, exasperated. “Me. Molly. Proposal. Tonight’s the night! You haven’t told me the plan!”

“Oh yes, yes. Forgive me.” Mycroft rubbed at his eyes. “I was up very late. Sir Kendrick Tilden was quite inconsolable last night when we had to separate him from the ladies. Howled for hours. I confess I didn’t get much sleep. He’s a very passionate little man. But it had to be done. The girls were quite knackered from all his attentions. Though I believe we may have a happy event to announce soon.”

“Well, isn’t Kenny a lucky little doggie!” said Greg. “Enjoying a double dose of the old organ grinding, is he?”

“SIR KENDRICK is an excellent stud.” Mycroft said snippily. “Very attentive and respectful. You could take a few lessons from him, Greg.”

“I do alright.” returned Greg with a smile, “though I can’t say I envy him the two birds. One at a time is more than enough to deal with. Throw another one in, and there’s bound to be trouble, Mike, fair warning. Women, no matter the species, are that jealous.”

“Though all this talk of canine coitus is fascinating,” said Sherlock cutting in, “can we get back to my problem, please?”

“You have no problem,” Mycroft snapped. “Everything is in place. Every contingency prepared for. You will be at the theater TWO HOURS before the performance. Once the play ends, leaving ample time for applause and curtain calls, and god help us if they want an encore, for we haven’t prepared one…”

“Highly unlikely,” interjected John. “You would have been better factoring in time for stunned silence or the throwing of garbage.”

“Leaving ample time for applause and curtain calls,” Mycroft continued throwing John a glare, “you will have approximately twenty minutes to change into your evening wear. Father has agreed to keep Dr. Hooper company and out of the way during that time.”

“Father?” asked Sherlock.

“Of course. Father is in on it. I had to have an inside man, didn’t I? He and Mummy will be coming down this afternoon. They’re staying with Elizabeth and I for the evening, to keep them well out of your way. You’re welcome. I only hope Sir Kendrick can keep from…humping them. It’s terribly embarrassing. And the amount of dog hair is…”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock said crossly.

“Hmmmm? Oh yes. Father will keep Dr. Hooper occupied whilst you change. When you’re ready, a car will be brought around to the stage door entrance of the theater. Once we get the signal that you’re situated, Father will ask Dr. Hooper to take a walk outside for some air, and there you’ll be, waiting. I only hope, Sherlock, that you can contain yourself until you get to Mummy and Father’s. Everything is set up there, and Father assures me the garden looks lovely! Don’t go off prematurely now.”

“Yeah, Sherlock,” Greg said, “you don’t want to be a Dick-Quickee.”

Sherlock ignored this. “Very well. Thank you, Mycroft. I admit to being a bit…anxious about all this.” He turned to John. “You won’t forget the ring?”

“No way mate. I’ve got your back.” John said reassuringly, though still a bit cross-eyed. John turned to Mycroft. “I might be a bit behind the others. Harry is coming to watch Rosie, and she doesn’t get off work until four. It won’t take me as long as the rest to get ready in any case, as I’m already wearing this thing.” He pointed at the protuberance. “I only hope Finster can get it off of me afterwards. He doesn’t have to worry about removing them usually, does he?”

“Your sister isn’t coming to the performance?” asked Mycroft.

“God, no,” said John. “I didn’t even tell her about it. Wasn’t going to give her that kind of ammunition. Don’t know how I’m going to explain the nose though.”

********************

The same time

Molly Hooper’s flat.

Molly Hooper sat calmly on her sofa, sipping a cup of tea, while Mrs. Hudson and Anthea hovered and darted around her like busy little bees.

“Well?” said Mrs. Hudson to Anthea. “Let’s see it then!”

Anthea squealed and ran off into the bedroom, returning almost instantly holding aloft Molly’s dress for the evening.

It was gorgeous. And it was totally Molly.

A bright rose colored frock, with tiny black polka-dots, that skimmed her shoulders, showing a great expanse of neck and upper chest, falling to a delicate V. The waist was cinched tight with a darling little belt that fastened in a huge dangling bow at her back. The skirt was knee length and it had built in crinoline, so that it belled out around her in a very becoming fashion. Anthea had paired it with matching heels with little bows on the toes. And there was a cute little scarf to hold back her hair. Molly loved it!

“And underthings?” Mrs. Hooper said, turning to Molly. “You can’t be wearing your old bloomers under this my girl. It’s silk and lace or nothing! Though I’d usually recommend nothing, it might not do this evening. Sherlock’s parents will be there after all, and we can’t have you flashing them the kitty, can we?”

“New underwear,” Molly assured Mrs. Hudson. “Purchased for the occasion. Very sexy.”

“Good, good!” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson. She regarded Molly for a moment. She was very calm. Too calm. Mrs. Hudson looked over at Anthea, and jerked her head toward Molly eyebrows raised. Anthea only shrugged. No idea.

Mrs. Hudson joined Molly on the sofa and gave her a penetrating stare. “You’re very relaxed.”

Molly looked over at her and smiled. “Why shouldn’t I be? You’ve assured me everything is in place. Isn’t that right?”

Mrs. Hudson tilted her head at Molly. “Yes. That’s right, Molly dear. Everything is ready to go. Once the play ends, we’ll have a car brought round to the front of the theater. While Sherlock is changing, Mrs. Holmes is going to go in and keep him busy. Make sure we have at least fifteen or twenty minutes to get you situated.”

“Mrs. Holmes?” asked Molly.

“Yes! Mummy! Isn’t that lovely? I needed an inside man, didn’t I? And she was so excited to help us. Oh, she’s simply thrilled! Over the moon!”

“That’s nice,” offered Molly, taking another sip of her tea.

Mrs. Hudson jumped up from the sofa. “Molly Hooper! What in the name of David Beckham’s bollocks is wrong with you?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” said Molly with a smile that was all teeth. “Everything is wonderful! I’m going to be Mrs. Sherlock Holmes, you know.”

“She’s finally cracked her nut,” said Anthea coming around the sofa to stand beside Mrs. Hudson. 

“I’m fine!” Molly insisted. “Tonight is going to be perfect! I’m going to act like a perfect lady, and have the perfect proposal, and everything will be perfect!!!!”

The last “perfect” was screeched rather, before Molly took a deep breath, and went back to sipping her tea.

Anthea and Mrs. Hudson looked at each other. Mrs. Hudson nudged her forward, thrusting her head in Molly’s direction, the message clear, “you try!”

Anthea went and sat beside Molly on the sofa. She gently took the teacup from Molly’s hands and placed it back on the table. She turned Molly to face her. “Now come on, my girl, fess up. Don’t think you can fool Hudders and I. Tell old Anthea what’s wrong.”

Molly looked into Anthea’s serious eyes, then turned her head to peer at Mrs. Hudson, whose face was a mask of concern. Back to Anthea. Mrs. Hudson. Anthea. Mrs. Hudson.

Then she broke out into peals of hysterical, snorting laughter.

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Hudson to Anthea. “You were right. She’s gone daft. The pressure’s gotten to her. I’ve seen it before. Maybe I should have let her and Sherlock get a dicking in here and there.”

“No, no!” Molly jumped from the sofa and began pacing. “That’s not it!” She tried to contain her giggling. “Its…its just that it’s all going to be a disaster, isn’t it? This isn’t going to work. We’ve forced Sherlock into it. Oh how do I get myself into these things? Why do I always go along with these mad schemes? I used to be a normal person. Well, semi-normal. And so what if Sherlock ended up proposing to me at the Larvae Exhibition at the Museum of Natural History? I like larvae! They turn into butterflies you know. And it would at least have been original! This whole romantic scheme is doomed to fail. It will be just like Titanic. Me hanging onto a piece of wreckage for dear life, and Sherlock going under for the last time. And he hates that film! It’s going to be an utter catastrophe, you’ll see. In a few hours poor Sherlock will be hopping around on stage. In a dress. And a wig. In front of everyone he knows. And I’ll have done it to him! Who does that to the man they love? This is all my fault. It can only end in disgrace and humiliation. Grotesque humiliation!” She ended this facing Mrs. Hudson, breathing heavily.

Mrs. Hudson regarded her critically, then pointed the sofa and said simply. “Molly Hooper. You sit down right now!”

Molly stomped back to the sofa and sat.

“Of course it’s not going to work!” said Mrs. Hudson.

“What!?” exclaimed Anthea, horrified.

Mrs. Hudson regarded both Molly and Anthea piteously. “What do you take me for? An idiot? Of course it isn’t going to work. Sherlock will find some way to bugger it all up. He always does! I’m sure he’ll end up falling off the stage and knocking himself unconscious, or you’ll be riding in the car and it will slide off the road into a pig-sty, or he’ll manage to burn his parents' house down. Poor lad. He can't help it. Can’t get out of his own way. Nervous. Emotional. That’s our Sherlock. I’m sure he’s worked himself up into quite a tizzy by now. Why I remember one time, right after a big case, when he was very keyed up, he decided to try and work out one of Harry Houdini’s escape routines. If it wasn’t for all the banging I never would have found him. He would have been one of those corpses that are only discovered weeks later because of the smell. How he was able to lock himself in that trunk, get the gag in, and tie his hands behind his back, I’ll never know. And why he was wearing a…”

“Mrs. Hudson!” screamed Molly.

“What? Oh, where was I? Of course it won’t go the way we planned Molly. I knew that all along! Really! We’re simply getting him into a position where you’ll have to rescue him from insult or injury, as usual, and he’ll just blurt it out. If we left it to him, he’d dither about forever, and never come up to scratch. You’ll probably end up either in the lion’s cage at the London Zoo, or half-naked in a swamp, covered in leeches, but by the end of the evening you’ll be engaged to be married! And have quite a story to tell my almost-grandchildren! It’s much better than larvae or sewage. Who do you think I am, after-all, Mycroft? Don’t I always look out of you? Why you’re just like my own daughter! Now it would be much simpler if you'd just go along like a good girl. Have I failed you yet?”

Molly had a sudden flash of mortifying memory. Being dolled up like a streetwalker and presented to Sherlock, like a juicy bone to a starving dog. The only problem was…it had worked.

“No?” said Molly.

“Exactly!” replied Mrs. Hudson with a clap of her hands. “My plans always work out. Unlike someone else I could name. A stuck-up prig who never thanked me for sorting HIM out. Now, Molly, you have a shot of whiskey, and a bit of a lie down. I have a nice Valium if you need it. In a few hours we’ll start getting you ready. I must say I’m very excited to see what happens! And, I do admit I can’t wait to see John and Sherlock prancing around that stage like Punch and Judy! Nothing less than they deserve, the wankers! Trying to fool me. They never learn. Well, this will teach them, won't it? Have you seen John’s nose? When I go to my reward, do not let that Mr. Finster near me, ladies. Dress me in my most comfy nightie, stuff me in a cardboard box, and bury me. Do NOT waste your money on embalming or one of those expensive coffins they all try and sell you. Guilt you into it, they do. The robbers! As if I’ll care if the bugs and rats get at me. I would like a nice stone, however. You spend the money on that. I have all the instructions in my safe with my important papers. Oh and how you will all cry when that day comes! Don’t mourn for too long darlings. And no black at the service. Black always washes everyone out. You'll all look like that Cyril. Nothing wrong with a bit of sun, I always say. Oh this is going to be so much fun! I can’t wait for the wedding!"


	10. Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't go quite as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one, but for story reasons I didn't want to break it up. We're pretty much at the end, my dears. I believe there will be one more short chapter and an epilogue!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Once again, all mistakes are mine alone. I own nothing!

That Evening.

75 minutes before curtain.

One of Mycroft Holmes’ luxurious vehicles.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Lady Elizabeth, Molly and Mrs. Hudson rode, in great comfort, in the back of one of Mycroft’ Holmes’ stable of luxurious black cars, toward the Little Theater, to enjoy the Bowling League Benefit Production of The Taming of the Shrew, for the Tanorexia Society of Britain. Anthea had been invited to join them, but had politely refused, preferring to get there on her own, in her little sports car.

They were all decked out in their best evening wear, and looking very smart. Mr. Holmes was currently employing one of Mycroft’s many lint brushes, to clean an excess of dog hair from his person.

“I’m so sorry about Sir Kendrick, Timothy,” said Lady Elizabeth with embarrassment. “I don’t know what came over him. It must be the resemblance to Mycroft.” She turned to Mrs. Hudson. “He loves his Daddy, you know.”

“Perhaps a bit too much,” put in Mr. Holmes, working on his trousers, “from the look and…feel of it.”

“Oh dear!” cried Lady Elizabeth. “I can’t apologize enough.”

“Oh please don’t worry about it, Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Holmes. “Don’t listen to Timothy. Why, we’re country people after all. Used to seeing animals in…all states. Though I must say, he is a randy little bugger isn’t he, your Sir Kendrick?”

“Takes after his father, does he?” muttered Mrs. Hudson under her breath.

“What was that, Martha dear?” asked Lady Elizabeth.

“Oh! Nothing! Just that I can’t wait to see the puppies. They’ll be very darling, I’m sure.” She smiled at Lady Elizabeth. Then she turned to Molly and whispered, “bet they’ll look just like old Grand-Dad!”

“Shhhhhhh,” Molly scolded.

“Mycroft is just so excited for tonight,” said Lady Elizabeth. “He’s been hardly able to contain himself these past three weeks! I confess, I’ve never been to a Bowling League benefit before. I rather thought they usually did Revues and the like. But Shakespeare is so much nicer, don’t you think?”

“Oh yes!” agreed Mrs. Hudson heartily. “And I can’t wait to see our dear Sherlock and John perform! Why I’m quite breathless with anticipation. Aren’t you, Molly dear?” Mrs. Hudson nudged Molly, who was looking glummer and glummer the closer they got to the theater, her cheek now resting against one of the windows, looking out at the London evening, as if longing for escape. Mrs. Hudson nudged her again.

Molly started, and seemed to come out of a stupor. “Yes!” Molly exclaimed. “Perfect! I accept.”

Mrs. Hudson studied her. Perhaps she should have only given her half the Valium. She pinched her, viciously, on the arm, and Molly squawked and scowled at her. “Pep up missy!” Mrs. Hudson ordered in a hissed whisper. “This is your big night. Keep your head in the game.” Mrs. Hudson turned to say something to Lady Elizabeth, and Molly caught Mrs. Holmes’ eye. Wanda Holmes was looking at her with motherly concern, and sympathy. “Everything will be fine,” she mouthed at Molly. 

Molly smiled and nodded at her. And dammit, Mrs. Hudson was right. She had to get her head in the game. She had to be supportive of Sherlock tonight, no matter how ghastly this production was, or how horribly he embarrassed himself. No matter what kind of abomination she was about to witness, at the end of it, she would be on her feet and cheering!

The car came to a slow stop in front of the theater. The ladies were helped out onto the pavement, Mr. Holmes bringing up the rear.

The marquee was lit up, declaring “The Taming of the Shrew for The Tanorexia Society of Britain. One Night Only!” and then, ominously, “SOLD OUT.”

“Oh! Isn’t that wonderful!” Lady Elizabeth cried. “A sold-out crowd! Mycroft will be giddy!”

“And he’s not the only one!” said Mrs. Hudson clapping her hands in glee.

“Dearest,” said Mr. Holmes to his wife, “I’m going to sneak around back, to the stage entrance. I’d like to pop in and see how our boys are fairing, alright?”

“Of course, love,” Mrs. Holmes agreed with a smile. “Tell them I said break a leg! Oh, and you’ll probably have to explain that to them, Timothy. I’ll go in with the girls and save you a seat, shall I?”

Her husband gave her a kiss, then bowed a bit to the other ladies. He took off on his long-legged stride, and disappeared around the corner of the building.

Wanda Holmes watched him go, then turned to Molly and sighed. “Forty-seven years of marriage, and I still love watching his backside as he walks away.” She leaned in closer to Molly and whispered. “And you are a lucky girl, Molly Hooper, for Sherlock inherited it.”

*********************

60 minutes before curtain.

The Lobby - The Little Theater

Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Holmes, Lady Elizabeth and Molly were greeted at the entrance of the theater by none other than the Executive Director of the Tanorexia Society of Britain himself. Cyril was decked out in black evening wear that served to highlight his pasty complexion to a slightly terrifying degree. If you shaved his head and stood him up against a white wall, he would have resembled The Invisible Man. All suit, no substance.

“Martha!” exclaimed Cyril, delighted to see his benefactress. “I was wondering when you’d get here. After all, if it weren’t for you, none of this would have been possible.”

Mrs. Hudson preened at the praise, and offered her cheek to Cyril, so he could buss it with his bloodless lips.

“Of course I wouldn’t have missed it, dear boy! Not for anything! We’re a bit early. Wanted to make sure we beat the rush. And I have a treat for you here, my fine lad," she said, making introductions. "This lovely lady is Mrs. Wanda Holmes, mother to our dear Mycroft and Sherlock. This is Lady Elizabeth Holmes, Mycroft’s wife. And this is Dr. Molly Hooper, Sherlock’s young lady!"

“How wonderful,” exclaimed Cyril, shaking hands limply all around. “Your sons have generous hearts, Mrs. Holmes. You must be very proud of them.”

“Oh, prodigiously,” replied Mrs. Holmes, staring at Cyril’s odd countenance. 

“A very imposing gentleman, your husband,” Cyril offered to Lady Elizabeth.

“Indeed,” said that Lady, looking Cyril up and down.

Cyril then turned to Molly, with whom he appeared to be quite taken. “And I can certainly see why Mr. Holmes-the-younger is so enchanted with you Dr. Hooper, if I may be so bold. You complexion is flawless! I do hope you’re using protection though?”

“Well…” Molly said, looking around at the other women.

“The cream isn’t enough, you know,” said Cyril sagely. “You must wear a hat!”

“Yes, yes, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson moving forward, and dragging Molly along by the arm, Mrs. Holmes and Lady Elizabeth following along behind. “You can’t be too careful, can you? We’ll just go find our seats, shall we?”

“Oh yes!” said Cyril. “You’re right up front. Best seats in the house. There’s a roped-off section. You can’t miss it. You’ll be seated with our other special guests. Some of the poor unfortunates this performance will benefit, don’t you know. Oh what a good example you’ll be, Dr. Hooper. Make sure they can get a good look at your face! I must dash. The bus will be pulling up soon, and I have to search them all before letting them off. We let them out for a bit of shopping once a week, and even though they’re supervised, they always manage to come back with a few bottles of tanner. I don’t know how they manage it.” Cyril trotted off, out the front doors of the theater.

“Is he some sort of vampire-groupie, Martha?” asked Mrs. Holmes.

“Like the teenagers who role-play those Twilight books,” said Lady Elizabeth. “Surely it can’t be healthy to be that pale.”

“No, no, Wanda, Elizabeth.” assured Mrs. Hudson. “Cyril’s perfectly fine. Just a bit of an eccentric, poor dear.” She smiled widely at the other women. “But I don’t judge.” 

Mrs. Holmes and Lady Elizabeth exchanged looks, and followed along, while Molly allowed herself to dragged down the aisle, to their seats. Right. Up. Front.

********************

55 minutes before curtain.

Backstage. The Little Theater

There was a tapping on Sherlock’s shoulder, and then a very familiar voice said, “Excuse me madam, could you possibly point me in the direction of Sherlock Holmes? I’ve been told I’ll find him back here somewhere.”

Sherlock’s back stiffened. It was too late to make a run for it. Besides, they’d see sooner or later. He turned around to face his father.

The two men, father and son, stared at each other for a long moment. Mr. Holmes’ brows rose almost to his hairline, as he looked his youngest son over, from the top of his red wig, past his garishly made-up face, down the length of his lovely frock, to the dainty slippers that adorned his feet. His eyes slowly traveled back up this remarkable sight, until he met his son’s sloe-eyed gaze again.

Then he burst out into loud, raucous, hooting laughter.

“I know I look ridiculous!” Sherlock snapped.

“Oh, you do! You do!” replied his father, gasping. “You look like Auntie Mame!” This produced more snorting gales of laughter, and his father literally doubled over, grabbing his stomach. Sherlock hoped he weed himself, the old bastard. 

“Go on, then. Laugh. Kick me when I’m down. Why don’t you call Mummy over as well? We can take a picture for the Christmas newsletter.”

“Stop!” his father cried, chortling. You’re killing me.” He held a hand up, trying to catch his breath. “I’ll have a stroke.” After a few minutes he manfully contained his laughter to a few giggles, and raised himself back up to face his son, a wide, crinkling smile on his joyous face. 

“You’re enjoying this! My humiliation!” accused Sherlock.

His father nodded. “I confess, I am, rather.” He pointed at his son. “You were appalled when you found out that I proposed to your mother at a naturist beach! Not so high and mighty anymore, are you? Where are YOU hiding the ring, Sherlock? In your brassiere?” This started him off laughing again, and Sherlock turned to go.

“I’ll see you after my degradation is complete. Hopefully Molly will take pity on me.”

Mr. Holmes grabbed his son’s arm and turned him back around to face him, sobering. “Now don’t be like that, Sherlock. I’m sorry I laughed.”

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms over his padded chest. His father swallowed another fit of giggles.

“How did you manage to get yourself into this? Mycroft gave me some barmy explanation, but I know you. You’re here, because some deranged scheme of yours went bollocks-up, didn’t it? You don’t even like Shakespeare.”

“Hmmmmmmm,” replied Sherlock, looking down at his feet.

“Well, I guess love makes us all do mad things, doesn’t it, my boy?” his father said knowingly.

Sherlock’s head popped up. “I just wanted to get married, Father.” Sherlock said miserably. “Then John kissed me, and Mrs. Hudson walked in, and then the Bowling League and the Tanorexics got all mixed up in it, and here I am in a frock.”

“John kissed you?” asked his father.

“Never mind that,” Sherlock said. “I lied, alright? I lied, and then I couldn’t stop lying, and I dragged John into it with me, and then Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft got involved, and now Molly and everyone else is going to see me in a dress! And John’s nose is huge! And he’s rubbish. And cross-eyed. And I’ll never live this down. Molly will never agree to marry me after seeing me like this!” He swept his arms dramatically up and down his frame.

“Oh Sherlock,” said his father, grabbing him by both arms and shaking him a bit. “You always have to make things hard on yourself. Never the easy way for you, my boy. So, you lied and got caught out, did you? Well, what did your mother and I always tell you? If you do wrong, you have to pay the price. And it looks to me like you’re paying it. In spades.”

Sherlock grunted a sound of agreement.

“But I’ll tell you something else. Your girl, our Molly, loves you. She’s head over heels for you. It’s obvious to anyone who sees the two of you together. She thinks you hung the moon, Sherlock!”

Sherlock nodded.

“And she’s already seen you at your worst, hasn’t she?” his father prompted.

Sherlock remembered that first Christmas party, the stinging slaps Molly had delivered when he was high, that ghastly phone call when he thought her apartment was rigged to explode and he was going to lose her, and the painful and embarrassing Romantic first date he had attempted.

“Yes. Yes, she has, I suppose.”

“So then,” said his father, “a little thing like a bit of cross-dressing for a good cause, though honestly I still have no idea what the devil Tanorexia is, isn’t going to stop her from agreeing to marry you, will it now? So, take your medicine like a man, son. Even if you have to do it wearing a frock. You just get through this cock-up, as best you can, and then we’ll get you sorted. Yes?”

“Alright, Father,” Sherlock nodded. “Yes. You’re right. Molly loves me. No matter what. I’ll just grit my teeth, and get through this performance, and then everything will be fine.”

His father let him go and slapped him on the back. “Good lad.”

“You’ll clap, though, won’t you? You and Mummy? No matter how awful it is?” Sherlock asked, anxiously.

“Of course we will, Sherlock! I managed to wake myself up at the end of Cats and give a standing ovation, didn’t I?” Sherlock had deleted Cats, but nodded at his father in any case. “Besides, Mycroft is gadding about like a giddy schoolboy! We have to support him in his directorial debut as well, don’t we? Between this play and those horrid little rat-arsed dogs he’s got going at it like bunnies, he’s about to explode. And, oy, those dogs! Yap yap yap, that’s all they do. Nothing wrong with a nice Alsatian or a Retriever. Leave it to your brother…Maltipoos.” That horrid name was said with a grimace.

This made Sherlock smile and laugh a bit, for what felt like the first time in ages. “I love you, Father.” he said suddenly. “I don’t tell you that often, do I?”

His father’s smiled. “No, my boy. You don’t. But your old Dad knows it anyway, so don’t you worry. Don’t you worry about anything, Sherlock. It’s all going to work out. I promise. Now I better get back to your mother. If she spies me back here talking to such a gorgeous bird, there’ll be hell to pay, mark my words!”

“Oh bugger off.” Sherlock said. But he said it smiling.

*******************

45 minutes before curtain.

The Lounge - The Little Theater

“Where in the bloody hell is John?” asked Greg. He and Sherlock, in full costume, makeup and wigs, were pacing back and forth, barricaded behind the door of the lounge. There had been no sign of John, and he wasn’t answering his phone. 

“Mycroft’s head is going to explode!” Greg exclaimed. “I’m surprised he hasn’t already noticed! We’re lucky Crack had that emergency with his tights, or we’d be buggered." A terrible thought occurred to him. "Do you think he’s gone and done a runner?”

“Not John,” said Sherlock firmly. “He’s no coward! He wouldn’t desert me. Plus, he’s bringing the ring! Oh god, where is he?”

“That’s right! He’s got the blasted ring!” cried Greg. “Try him again.” 

“I’ve called him fifteen times, already, Greg, and he’s not answering! I’ve tried the phone at the flat as well, and Harry’s not picking up either. Maybe she was late, and John had to find someone else to watch Rosie?”

“She a bit of tosspot, isn’t she? Maybe she showed up pissed.” Greg offered.

“I don’t think so,” said Sherlock. “She’s been sober for years, but then again, with an addict…”

He left off there. Sherlock knew better than anyone that an addict was only one slip away from disaster.

“I wonder if Mrs. Hudson’s seen him?” Greg mused. “Do you think I should send Keith out front to ask her?”

“No!” exclaimed Sherlock. “You can’t tell Keith! He’ll tattle to Mycroft, then what will we do?”

“The place is filling up Sherlock, we don’t have much time. You should see it! I peeked out. The theater’s sold out, just like Mike said.” Greg suddenly remembered something. “Oh, and they put all those Tanorexics right down front. Don’t look out at the audience, whatever you do. All those orange faces staring up at you…” He shuddered. “Gave me the willies.”

All of a sudden Sherlock’s phone rang. They both looked at the display. It said “John calling.”

“Oh thank god!” Sherlock said, and answered. “Where the devil are you?!” he screamed into he phone, “we’re going on in forty-five minutes!”

“Sherlock.” It was John’s voice. But it sounded…wrong. 

“John?” 

“Sherlock. Come. Please. You have to come.”

Sherlock looked sharply up at Greg. He mouthed “something’s wrong,” and Greg crowded close.

“John, was is it? What’s the matter?”

“I’m…I’m at hospital. St. Bart’s. Please Sherlock. You need to come right away. It’s Rosie.”

“I’m on my way, John,” Sherlock said into the phone, and hung up.

Then he threw back his head and screamed at the top of his lungs, “Mycroft!”

********************

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital - Emergency

The group that burst through the doors of Emergency at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital looked like escapees from a very exclusive drag show. Six adults in very smart evening wear, and two tall gentlemen in wigs and dresses.

The two cars that had been intended for the cross purpose of secreting Sherlock and Molly away to their romantic evening, had instead been used to convey them all to the hospital. Greg had employed one his boys from down the station, to give them an escort, and they had arrived in record time. 

Sherlock shouldered his way up to the front of the queue at the desk, elbowing aside a woman with a horrid facial rash and a man with a nose spurting blood like a spigot. “Watch it Mrs. Brown!” cried the man, as he attempted to stem the flow of blood from his nose with a large handkerchief. “There’s a queue. Get to the back of the line, ya fop!”

Sherlock totally ignored him and turned to the harried woman sitting behind the desk, typing information into a computer. “I’m looking for a Dr. John Watson, he came in with his daughter, Rosie.”

“Are you a relative….sir?” the woman asked warily, pushing away from the computer and sliding her chair backwards. Probably toward a panic button of some sort. Sherlock really couldn’t blame her. He looked like a madman…or woman, he knew. Molly had managed to peel the great false eyelashes off of him in the car, and he had wiped away most of the makeup, leaving him in a dress and wig, with a horrid black eye and a split lip.

“He’s my best friend,” said Sherlock, “and she’s my goddaughter.”

“Well…unless you’re family, I can’t really…” she continued inching backwards.

Greg pushed up to the front of the line and held up his badge. “Police business, ma’am. If you’d just give us the information, please.”

The woman rolled a bit closer and looked over Greg’s credentials and appearance. His blond wig was a bit askew, and he looked to be sporting a day’s worth of beard growth. Mycroft would have been very pleased to note, however, that his frock look fresh and unwrinkled. 

The woman’s mouth turned mulish. “I’m very busy! I don’t have time for this foolishness, lads! There are sick people here. Not the place to be taking the piss, you know! And you,” she shook a finger at Greg, “shame on you. Dressed like that. Impersonating a bobby.”

“Lottie?” Molly Hooper shoved her way through, sandwiching herself between Sherlock and Greg.

“Dr. Hooper!” cried Lottie. “Don’t you look nice! Are you with this lot?” She jerked her head at Sherlock and Greg. “Psychiatric ward?” 

“No, no.” Molly said. “They’re perfectly fine. Really. Greg here is an Inspector with Scotland Yard,” Molly said, patting Greg’s arm. She pointed at Sherlock, “and this is….” Sherlock shook his head at her, eyebrows raised. “…someone else. We’ve just come from a benefit, you see. For Tanorexia.”

Lottie stared at her. “Tanorexia?”

“Yes! And they’re ever so orange up close…Oh never mind that!” snapped Molly, “we’re looking for Dr. John Watson. He’s a friend of mine. His daughter, Rosie, is ill. He called us to come.”

“Hmmmmmm. Well, for you Dr. Hooper. But don’t tell Dr. Sprinter. It’ll be my head on a platter, if he catches this lot running around back there.”

“Yes! Thank you Lottie! I’ll take full responsibility.”

Lottie rolled back up to the desk and tapped at a few keys. “Here we are. Dr. John Watson and Rosamund Watson. You should find them back there in Room 5.” Lottie pointed down a long hallway.

“Oh, thank you Lottie! I owe you one!”

Molly, Sherlock and Greg, along with Anthea, Mycroft, Lady Elizabeth, and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes went dashing off down the hall, in the direction of Room 5.

Lottie turned back to the gentleman who was next in line. “Now. Back to you Mr. Binder. How far up would you say you shoved that…”

********************

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital - Emergency - Room 5

John Watson sat alone in Room 5, his head in his hands, desolate, when the crowd of his friends burst through the doorway.

“John!” cried Sherlock, going immediately to him, and crouching down in front of him, as the others filled the room. “What’s happened? What’s wrong with Rosie?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. She was fine! We were sitting in the front room, messing about. Waiting for Harry." John's head popped up. "Oh god, Harry! She’s probably worried sick! I never even thought…can someone call the house? I think I threw my phone after I hung up with Sherlock.” He looked around, face lead by the great false nose he still hadn’t been able to remove, as if his phone would suddenly appear.

Anthea held her phone aloft and headed out of the room. “On it, John!” she announced.

John turned back to Sherlock. “She was crawling all over, happy as lark, just as usual,” he continued. “Then, all of a sudden, she just started screaming. Wailing! It was awful. I couldn’t see any marks on her. She hadn’t cut herself, or fallen. She just kept crying and crying. She was in pain, Sherlock! I grabbed her up and brought her here. They took her away, and I haven’t seen her since.” He dropped his head back into his hands. 

Sherlock looked around the room, helplessly, until his eyes found Molly. She came to them immediately, and sat next to John, putting her arms around him. “John, you have to calm down. I’m sure they’re just doing some tests to make sure Rosie is alright. You know babies. Sometimes they just cry for no reason. It could be the croup. It could be gas. It could be anything. Try not to worry so.”

“Oh Molly,” John said turning his face into her shoulder, squishing his false nose. “I can’t lose her, too.”

Molly kissed John’s head, then looked up at Sherlock, her eyes wet. “You’re not going to lose her, John. I promise. I’ll go see if I can find out what’s going on, shall I?” Molly had just gotten to her feet, when the door opened, and a young, very handsome, dark-haired doctor came into the room, holding a chart. He stopped short, looking around the at the….collection assembled. His eyes roamed the room, and landed on Molly. 

“Molly?” he asked. “What are you doing here? Is Rosamund a relation?”

“Oh, Brad!” cried Molly in relief. “I’m so glad you’re on tonight! Yes, Rosie is my goddaughter.” She gestured to John. “This is Rosie’s father, Dr. John Watson.”

At Molly’s “Oh, Brad!” Sherlock had risen to his feet, and regarded the handsome young doctor with a filthy glare. “And I’m the boyfriend,” he gritted out. 

Dr. Brad gave Sherlock the once over, apparently not knowing what to make of his appearance. “Dr. Watson been knocking you about then?” he said with a laugh, showing off his bright white teeth.

Greg just managed to grab the back of Sherlock’s frock before he lunged. “Not the time, arsehole” he hissed.

Dr. Brad turned to John, who had risen to his feet. “Dr. Bradley Carmichael, Dr. Watson,” he held out his hand and they shook. “I’m taking care of Rosie this evening.”

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” John asked nervously.

“Indeed,” answered the doctor, staring a bit a John’s great nose, but keeping his professionalism. “Seems your little Rosie swallowed something she shouldn’t have. From the X-ray, it looks like a ten-pence, or maybe a fifty. Caused her a bit of pain, I think. But from what I see, it’s already moved into the intestinal tract. Nothing for it now, but to wait for her to pass it. We’ve given her a little something for the discomfort, and I’d like to keep her here overnight, just to be safe. But she’s going to be just fine. Children are always doing this, you know. They’re just like little magpies. Attracted to shiny things.” He punctuated this with a smile, and looked over at Molly appreciatively. 

Sherlock growled, and Greg held tight to his frock.

“Oh thank god,” John said, dropping to the chair in relief. Mrs. Holmes went over and sat beside him, patting his back. 

“Give us fifteen or twenty minutes to get her settled in a room, and then I’ll send nurse to fetch you to her.”

“Thank you!” John said, reaching up to shake Dr. Carmichael’s hand vigorously. “Thank you so much!”

“Of course,” he replied. “See you in the canteen, Mols?” Dr. Carmichael said, as he made his way to the door.

“Coffee’s on me, Brad. Ta!” Molly replied, nodding. Dr. Carmichael gave her a very charming grin, raised a hand to the rest of the group, and was out the door.

Sherlock wheeled on Molly. “If you think, you’ll be having coffee with that grinning…tooth-whitening…tosser…”

“Sherlock, really!” His mother scolded. "This is hardly the time!"

“He turns into an absolute cave-dweller anytime another man so much as looks at her, Mummy.” Mycroft chimed in. “He’s a neanderthal, your youngest.”

“I am the worst father in history!” John announced miserably. “My baby girl, gobbling down coins, and I didn’t even notice!”

“Oh John!” said Mrs. Holmes in an amused tone. “Of course you’re not. Babies are forever stuffing things in their mouths. You can’t watch her every second. It happens.”

“Quite right,” put in Mr. Holmes. He gestured toward Mycroft. “We had this one here in Emergency four times before he reached the age of three. Same thing. Something down the gullet. A button, a stone, then a bottle-top…what was the last one, Wanda?”

“A tea-ball, dear.” Mrs. Holmes replied, “but he only managed to get it half-way down.”

“Righto,” said Mr. Homes. “You see John? And a genius IQ that one.”

John laughed at this, feeling a bit better. “So Rosie’s in good company then?”

“Oh absolutely, John!” Sherlock assured him. “We’ll just have to watch that this oral fixation doesn’t turn toward cake, and Rosie will be right as rain!”

********************

20 minutes later.

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital - Room 301 .

The group gathered around Rosie Watson’s bed, watching the little girl. She was out cold, probably due to the pain medication, but she seemed to be sleeping quite peacefully.

“Poor little dear,” said Lady Elizabeth looking down at her. “She’s that tuckered out.”

“Quite an eventful evening for the little Miss,” Mycroft agreed.

Suddenly the door burst open and Mrs. Hudson came flying through in a tizzy. “Is she alright?! Where is she?!” 

John went to her. “She’s just fine, Mrs. H. Apparently our girl swallowed something she shouldn’t. The doctor thinks a ten-pence possibly. She’s going to be perfect. They’re just keeping her overnight to be safe. I’m staying with her. Harry is going to bring me my kit.”

“Oh thank god!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, pulling John into a tight hug. “I was so worried!” She let John go and went to peep at Rosie in her bed. “Well, that will teach you, won’t it, Rosamund Mary Watson? Not everything you take in hand goes in your gob. Including tea-balls!”

“Tea-balls again?” asked John.

Mrs. Hudson waved him off. “I need to sit down. I sprinted all the way down that hallway. That horrid woman at the desk thought she could keep me out! Ha!”

Mrs. Watson collapsed heavily in a seat next to Mycroft and Lady Elizabeth.

Mycroft turned his head to her. “Well?”

“Well what?” she asked.

“How did it go? At the theater? Did you manage?” Mycroft asked, anxiously.

“Did I manage? Who do you think you’re talking to Mycroft Holmes? Did I manage! Really! It went perfectly! The men did quite well. Even with only thirty minutes to learn the routine. Thank goodness for that Keith! Quite a goer that one! He managed to get the music set up through the sound system in under ten minutes. Quite fast for a man his size, isn’t he? Anyway, the kick-line was a bit rubbish, but then most of those chaps are a bit stout, aren’t they? The vicars though! Danced like a dream, especially that Arthur! Oh, I do like a man with long legs! Well, in any event, we were quite the hit! You should of seen all those Tanorexics, up on their feet, dancing along, clapping. Why I bet it’s the best time the poor orange buggers have had in eons. Standing ovation! We even had to do an impromptu encore. It was a good job I’d shown them all how to do a rumpelty-bump. Brought the house down! But then, it always does. Poor Mr. Finster though. I think some of the Tano’s might have stolen his base makeup right from out of his kit. I told him you’d make it up to him, Mycroft. Poor Cyril was very put out. Until he found we'd raised 10,000 pounds. That almost put a blush in his cheeks!”

“10,0000 pounds!” cried Mycroft.

“Well, yes Mycroft! There was the take from the ticket sales, augmented by the money that the crowd kept throwing up on stage, and stuffing into everyone’s tights. Why I think Mr. Crack earned over 1000 pounds on his own! Any time he bent over, someone was stuffing bills in his backside. It was great fun! They’re already talking about making it an annual event!”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak.

Mrs. Hudson held up a hand. “No! Don’t thank me. I only wanted to help.”

Lady Elizabeth let out a snorting laugh, that she attempted to turn into a cough when her husband turned a glare on her.

“In any case, we missed you all, of course.” Mrs. Hudson said, patting Mycroft’s arm. “And it’s a terrible shame we never got to see Taming of the Shrew.”

“Oh horrible,” agreed Sherlock, standing in the corner, his arm around Molly.

“A travesty!” John concurred. 

********************

An hour later.

Harry had arrived with John’s things, checked on her niece, and was off again. Everyone else was preparing to go. It had been a very long evening.

As people gathered their coats and talked amongst themselves, John pulled Sherlock aside. “I’m so sorry about this, mate. I know it was supposed to be the big night. I buggered it all up for you.”

Sherlock put a hand on John’s shoulder. “There’s no need to be sorry, John. In fact, I think we should be thankful. Somehow today, for once in our insane lives, luck was shining down on us! Rosie is going to be perfectly fine, and we managed to get out of doing that bloody play! She’s a heroine in my book, that one.” Sherlock said, glancing over at Rosie. “And once she’s home, and back to herself, we’ll take all the rest of the bowlers out to the pub, and raise a toast in her name! I think the only ones disappointed are Mycroft and Greg, the great show-off.” 

Sherlock looked around the room until he spotted Molly, who was chatting happily with Mycroft and Lady Elizabeth. He hoped they weren’t trying to talk her into taking a puppy. He’d already had to revise his matrimonial chart for her dratted cat! 

“I think, for once John, I’m going to take your advice. I’ll invite her over, sit her on my sofa and get down on one knee. We’ll see what happens.”

John smiled at him. “Trust me, mate. It can’t miss.”

Sherlock pulled him into a tight hug, then released him. He turned to the crowd. “Alright then, who’s going with whom?”

“I’m going to take Greg and Mrs. H in my car, Sherlock,” said Anthea. “We thought we’d pop round the pub.”

“And Mummy and Father, and Elizabeth and I will take one of my cars, since we’re all headed to the same place. That will leave one free for you and Dr. Hooper, Sherlock.” Mycroft smiled at his brother and raised his brows.

Ah, so they were still plotting, were they? “Very well, Mycroft, thank you.” He turned to Molly. “Is that alright with you Molly Hooper?” he asked softly. 

“You know me Sherlock,” Molly said with a small smile, “whither thou goest, I will go.”

Molly. Hooper.

“Well then…” he began.

“I just want to get one more look at that little angel!” Mrs. Holmes said, coming up to Rosie’s bedside. “Oh! John! Her eyes are open. She’s smiling at me!”

John came up beside Mrs. Holmes and looked down at his daughter. “That’s not a smile…”

And suddenly the room began to fill with a smell, so noxious and malodorous, that even Molly, Greg, Sherlock and John, used to crime scenes and decaying corpses, felt their gag reflexes kick in.

“Oh my word!” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson, pulling a hankie from her cleavage and covering her nose.

“What are you feeding that child, John?” Mycroft asked in horror, grabbing his wife and inching toward the door, “chili dogs?”

“Oh that’s rank, that is,” said Greg, face screwed up.

“A ten-bagger for sure,” said Mr. Holmes, waving a hand in front of his face, and grabbing his wife’s arm to pull her out of the line of fire.

The door suddenly opened, and a nurse came bustling in. She stopped short, and sniffed the air. “Oh ho, I see our little Miss has decided to give us a prezzie, has she? I’m just in time then.” The intrepid nurse scooped Rosie from the bed and brought her to the changing table. She snapped on a pair of gloves and declared, “Let’s see what you’ve got for us!”

The nurse, who apparently had a stomach of cast-iron, or no olfactory sensors at all, opened the diaper and peered down to get a closer look. “A-ha! So here’s our culprit.” She grabbed at something, putting it aside, as she deftly rid the child of her soiled nappy, and had her cleaned up and in a fresh one, in under a minute. She left the baby happily cooing on the table, and went to the sink. She discarded the first pair of gloves and donned another. Then she began scrubbing at something with soap, and several squirts of anti-bacterial lotion. When she was satisfied, she snapped off the gloves, washed her hands again, dried them, and walked over to John. She held out her hand. “Does this look familiar?”

Sitting in the palm of her hand, winking merrily at them, was Molly Hooper’s engagement ring.

John grabbed it, stunned. “But…but…how?”

Sherlock left Molly and rushed to John’s side. “It was hidden!” John insisted. “How could she have gotten to it? How did she even get the box open?”

“I’ve been telling you for weeks now that she’s off the charts in manual dexterity for her age group. Why do you never listen to me?” Sherlock said, angrily.

“Is that Mama’s ring?!” Mrs. Holmes exclaimed.

The room went totally and completely silent. And then every head turned to Molly. 

Every one but Sherlock’s. He was looking at John. “Well then,” Sherlock sighed, straightening his shoulders, giving his best friend a wry smile, “there’s nothing for it, I suppose.” He snatched the ring from John’s hand, and marched to the center of the room, crying, “Molly Hooper! Would you please come here!”

Molly, who had been blushing under the stares of everyone in the room, started suddenly, and looked to Sherlock. He was no longer wearing the wig, and his hair was a disordered mess. He had a black eye, a split lip, and he was wearing a dress. And the look in his eyes was the most frightening thing that had ever been directed her way. She swallowed a gulp, and walked slowly towards him.

When they were standing face to face, Sherlock took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Molly Hooper,” he began, but his voice sounded a bit high and strangled. 

He cleared his throat. 

“Molly Hooper.” he tried again, this time in the rich baritone that made her knees week. “You are…angelic, brilliant, caring, delicious, extraordinary, flawless, generous, heavenly, intelligent, jolly, kind, likable, magnificent, nurturing, obliging, pretty, quirky, radiant, sweet, talented, understanding, virtuous, wonderful, xenodochial, yar and zesty.”

Molly’s face split into a radiant smile at this, her pretty dimples on full display. 

“And also,” Sherlock said, looking directly into her eyes, “I think you are the most beautiful woman in the world. I cherish you. I adore you. And…I love you. Madly.”

Tears threatened, then spilled over, and Molly had to wipe at them, so she wouldn’t lose one moment of seeing the look on Sherlock’s face right then.

He took one of her hands in both of his, and then slowly got down on one knee before her. In front of everyone.

“And even though I know I’m the most difficult man in the world to love, and that I’m barking mad, and that I am wearing a frock, and about to offer you a ring that was just pulled from a dirty nappy…I really wish you would do me the great honor of becoming my wife…please, Molly?” His eyes were serious, and hopeful. And there were tears in them.

Molly paused, savoring the moment, and then held out her free hand, palm down, fingers splayed. Sherlock looked from it, to her face. Hand. Face. Hand. Face. “Is that…yes?” he asked. Always best to verify data.

“Sherlock,” said Molly gently, “what did I say? Whither thou goest, I will go. Of course it’s yes.”

“Oh thank god,” said Sherlock relieved, shoulders slumping. He turned to John and gave him a thumbs up!

Molly wiggled her fingers under his nose.

“Oh! Right!” He held the ring up, then slipped it slowly on her finger. It was a perfect fit. 

Molly held her hand up to the light. Then straight out in front of her. She couldn’t stop staring at the world’s most gorgeous ring. Her engagement ring! 

“You like it?” asked Sherlock nervously, “It’s very old. It was my grand-mama’s.”

Molly looked at him, and there were more tears. She nodded her head. “It’s absolutely perfect! It reminds me of your eyes.”

She tugged on his hand, hard. “Will you please get up now, and kiss me?”

So he did. Sherlock leapt to his feet and grabbed her, picking her completely up off the floor. He crushed her to him, and kissed her senseless, the prying eyes of the hospital staff and his friends and family be damned! 

And no coffee for you, Dr. Brad!

People began celebrating around them, laughing, kissing and hugging one another. 

Timothy Holmes pulled his wife back against him, one arm around her waist, and squeezed. She let out a little strangled laugh that was mixed with tears.

Greg and Anthea did a bit of a jig about the room. And Mycroft and Lady Elizabeth joined in, if a bit more sedately.

Mrs. Hudson’s handkerchief came back into use, as she cried and exclaimed and, in her head, took all the credit.

John Watson watched for a moment, smiling huge, as his best friend kissed his new fiance. Then he turned, and went to the changing table, and the nurse, who was watching the proceedings with great amusement. John held out his arms. The nurse winked at him. "He'll make a beautiful bride," she said, head tilted toward Sherlock, and handed over the baby. 

John laughed, and kissed the top of Rosie’s head, turning her to face the room. She looked up at her father with her wide blue eyes. “Can you believe that?” John asked his daughter, looking down into her upturned face. Rosie chortled with glee and grabbed his false nose, yanking. Hard. He let out a yelp, and Rosie’s giggles turned to screeches of baby laughter. And at that moment, John thought she had never looked more like Mary.


	11. Curtain Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that same evening...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A peek at what everyone got up to after the big night.
> 
> Epilogue to follow.
> 
> Once again, this has been a joy to write and share with you all. I enjoy your comments so much. 
> 
> I may continue on in this universe, if I think I can do it justice.
> 
> I own nothing but my mistakes!

Later that same evening.

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital - Room 301

John Watson sat, slouched in a chair, by his daughter’s bedside, and watched her steady breathing. Rosie had been asleep for at least two hours, but John hadn’t been able to join her. A cot had been set up for his use, by the intrepid nurse, whose name he had discovered was Ava. He’d tried to lie down and settle to it, but it simply wasn’t happening. Being a doctor, a soldier, a parent and Sherlock’s Holmes’ partner, he was used to being up at all hours, so he resigned himself to one more sleepless night. He was off tomorrow, and Sherlock was away. Mrs. Hudson would watch Rosie for a few hours, so he could get a bit of a kip.

He spared a thought for Sherlock and Molly, smiling. What a night. What a debacle! It was an engagement story for the ages, though John had faithfully promised not to blog about it. And how Mary would have laughed! It felt good to remember her laughter. Ever since John had given up the flat they had shared, and moved into 221C, he felt better, more settled. His friends surrounded him and supported him. It was easier to get up every day and get on with the business of living, and not give in to the crushing grief. He was doing the job of getting on with his life, and raising his daughter, in the midst of the mad little family they had formed, and he thought Mary would approve. He hoped that Sherlock and Molly would start a family as well, and Rosie would have de facto brothers and sisters. That would be wonderful. And watching Sherlock Holmes try and navigate the ups and downs of parenthood…well…the entertainment value alone!

The door opened, and he turned his head to see Nurse Ava peeking into the room. “All quiet?” she whispered.

“Yeah, thanks.” said John. “She’s out like a light.”

“But not you?” Ava asked with a raised eyebrow.

John shook his head. “Can’t settle to it. Too much excitement, I expect.”

Ava nodded. Then she pushed open the door with her hip, and entered. She was carrying a steaming cup, and a plate, holding what looked like a sandwich. John’s stomach growled. Loudly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything.

At the sound, Ava’s face split into a huge grin. “Sounds like I’m just in time again!” she said. “I thought maybe you hadn’t remembered to eat, with all the goings on, so I got you something when I took my break.” She handed the cup of hot tea and the plate to John, then perched on the end of the unused cot.

“Has anyone ever told you, you’re an angel?” John asked, taking a sip of tea, and groaning. Then he took a huge bite of the sandwich.

Ava, who looked to be somewhere in her thirties, with very curly auburn hair, pulled back in a bun at her neck, and the pale skin and abundant freckles of a true redhead, smirked a bit at him. “Don’t really get too many compliments from the youngsters whose bottoms I have to wipe. Nice to hear it though, especially from a handsome bloke such as yourself.”

Handsome? John swallowed. “Uh…thanks.”

“Your daughter’s got quite the personality,” said Ava. “An imp, that one. You’re in for it in a few years.”

John sighed. “Don’t I know it.”

“No Mum in the picture?” Ava asked tentatively. “I only ask because, well, you’re here alone. Not that you’re alone, alone…I mean not with that lot of nutters who were here earlier.”

John laughed at that. “Bet that’s the first time you pulled an engagement ring out of a nappy.” 

Ava held up two fingers. “Second, actually.” John’s brows rose at this, but he was chewing, so he couldn’t speak. 

Ava crossed her index and middle finger. “Swear to god! But this is the first time I got to see the actual proposal. Your mate made quite a job of it! Even in a dress!”

“That’s Sherlock,” agreed John. “Falls in shite, and comes up smelling like a rose.”

A pause.

“I’m a widower, by the way,” John offered, going back to his sandwich.

“Oh…we’ve got that in common, then,” Ava said, quietly. “I lost my husband two years ago. Cancer.” 

John looked up at this. He finished swallowing the last bite of the sandwich. “I’m sorry, Ava.”

Ava nodded. “Yeah, me too. I'm sorry for your loss.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer. Then Ava slapped her knees and rose. “Well, I had better get back to it, then. Those bottoms won’t wipe themselves.” She held out her hand, and John handed over the empty plate, keeping the paper cup of tea.

“Thank you very much,” he said with a smile, “that was very kind of you.”

“It was no trouble,” she said. She pointed to the cot. “You should try and get some sleep. Dead on your feet, you are.” 

John nodded, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to.

Ava seemed to see through this. “You doctors,” she scolded, “you never listen to sense.” She turned to leave the room.

“Ava,” John called.

She turned at the door, eyebrows raised.

“Does it…does it get easier?” John asked.

Ava thought about this for a minute. She sighed. “It gets…less hard.” She paused for a moment, and then reached into her breast pocket, and pulled out a card and a pen. Using the back of the plate, she scribbled something down, and walked back to John, holding the card out to him.

“That’s my number,” she said. “You feel like talking…or you don’t feel like talking, but you just want to get a cup of tea or a drink with someone who understands…you give me a call, yeah?”

John took the card from her hand. He looked up into her pretty, freckled face. “Ta,” he said.

She nodded, smiling, and made her way out of the room.

John looked down at the card, remembering the last time a woman had offered him her number. He started to tear it up, but something stopped him. Instead, he pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket, and slipped the card inside. For safe keeping. In case he needed it.

The door opened, and John turned. Once again, Ava’s head peeked around the door. “Um. Can I ask you something?” 

“Sure,” John said.

“What’s up with the nose?”

********************

At the Pub

Greg and Anthea sat, elbows to the table, hands to their cheeks, watching Mrs. Hudson completely obliterate Crack and Graham, the two huge Swirly’s, at a game of darts.

They had run into a pack of the other bowlers when they got to the pub, and they were greeted like conquering heroes! Several rounds were bought for them, and many toasts given, and Mrs. Hudson was even hoisted up onto a few pairs of brawny shoulders and carried about the room. The mood was that celebratory! Apparently, getting out of having to perform Taming of the Shrew, and instead being asked to do a burlesque routine in front of a packed theater, had been the cause of much relief and high spirits!

“You shoulda seen Crack,” Graham told Greg while they were sharing a pint. “Shaking it to make it, he was! Known the man for over twenty years, and I never knew he could move like that! He’ll be the headliner next year, mark my words! Martha’s going to give him some private lessons.” As Mrs. Hudson was currently laughing giddily, and hanging on to Crack’s elbow like a limpet, Greg was unsure if those “lessons” would include dancing, of a vertical nature anyway. But, good for her! He only hoped poor Crack knew what he was getting himself into, and that the man had a good cardiologist. 

“Where does she get the energy?” Anthea asked, yawning a bit, bringing Greg back to the present. She gestured to Mrs. Hudson, who was jumping up and down with glee, celebrating an ace throw, and quaffing down a liberal swallow of sherry.

“I think she sold her soul to the devil for the promise of eternal vim and vigor.” Greg said. “That would explain a lot. She’s got a grip like a longshoreman. Don’t ever let her talk you into arm-wrestling.” Anthea yawned again, and Greg turned his head to her. “You about all in?”

“Mmmmmmm,” Anthea replied sleepily. “Let’s finish our pints and call it a night. Though we’ll have a job getting Hudders corralled, I think.” She picked up her pint, and drained half of it in one go. What a woman!

“I think maybe Crack might be talked into escorting her home.” said Greg, snorting, as he caught Mrs. Hudson sneaking a hand down to pinch that gentleman’s bottom. He jumped a mile! 

Greg and Anthea watched these antics for a few more moments, then she turned to him and asked, out of the blue, “do you want to get married, Greg?”

Greg choked on a swallow of his beer.

Anthea laughed. “Sorry! Sorry! I wasn’t asking for your hand, you nodcock! Just…curious…in general.”

Greg cleared his throat. “I dunno. I might do. Maybe. Possibly.”

“Do you mind if I asked what went wrong the first time round?” Anthea asked, placing both elbows back on the table, and cradling her face in her hands.

Greg leaned back, and ran a hand over his face. “Ah, well. That’s a question! Short version? We were too young. I was too ambitious. Looking to move up in the Yard. The kids came along, one right after the other, and we never seemed to spend much time alone together. Everything turned into an argument. Things weren’t fun anymore between us, like they used to be. God, we used to laugh! Then…I found out she was shagging just about every other bloke who crossed her path.”

“Ouch,” said Anthea grimacing.

“Yeah,” Greg said, huffing out a laugh. “It was my fault too, though. I wasn’t around as much as I should have been. We gave it another go, a few years back, but…it was rubbish. Finally had to admit it was over. Better for the kids that way. Their Mum and Dad always fighting. Not good. Things are better now.”

Greg took a pull on his pint, then asked, “What about you, Anthea Jones? You want to get married someday?”,

“I dunno. I might do. Maybe. Possibly, “ Anthea mimicked, smirking. “Actually, I never planned on it. Career girl. That’s me. I never rule anything out though, you never know. Maybe some handsome bloke will come along and sweep me off my feet!” She downed the rest of her pint. “I’ll tell you one thing. Whoever the lucky bastard might be, he better not try and shove a ring on my finger that was recently pulled out of a pile of baby-shite. I’d bollocks him!”

“It was very romantic!” Greg insisted.

********************

The Mycroft and Elizabeth Holmes’ Estate

The piteous howling had finally stopped twenty minutes previous. Sir Kendrick, the dear little fellow, seemed to have resigned himself to a solitary night. Mycroft was very glad. His head had been about to explode! Between the anxiety with baby Watson, his disappointment at the destruction of all his hard work on Taming of the Shrew, and having to “owe one” to Martha Hudson, Mycroft had been very put out and cross by the end of the evening. Of course, the bright spot had been that Sherlock had managed, against extreme obstacles, to actually make his proposal to Dr. Molly Hooper. And the madwoman had actually accepted him! Both his mother, and his wife, had assured him that it had been very romantic indeed. Mycroft didn’t understand how offering your intended a ring that had recently traveled through a baby’s intestines, and had been covered in excrement, could be considered romantic. Women were very strange creatures.

He had left his darling Elizabeth asleep upstairs in their bed. She had been quite amorous this evening after their return from the hospital, which had helped with his headache quite a bit, though Sir Kendrick’s howling through half of the proceedings had been a bit…distracting. Mycroft was now making his way down to the kitchen for a cup of tea, and a raid on the larder. He had worked up quite an appetite. As he passed the front room, he peeked in to make sure Sir Kendrick was settled, but, to his horror, the dog’s pen was empty! Had he escaped? No, the lock was quite in place. What the devil? Mycroft suddenly noticed that there was a faint light coming from the kitchen, and he followed it. When he reached his destination, he found his father, in nightclothes and a dressing gown, working away, preparing a tea tray.

“Father?” he called.

Mr. Holmes turned to his eldest son. “Oh, hullo Mikey. I was making some tea for your Mum and I. We couldn’t sleep. Between the excitement of the evening, and that Sir Kendrick, we’ve been up. Came down and had a little talk with that one, I did. Then I thought a cup of tea would help us settle.

“You had a…talk with Sir Kendrick? He’s not in his pen, Father. What did you do to him?!” Mycroft exclaimed.

“Well, I didn’t strangle the little bugger, did I? Dearly as he deserved it.” His father motioned to Mycroft. “Follow me, Mike.”

Mycroft followed his father out of the kitchen and down the long hallway, right to the door of the library, where the the ladies’ pen was set up. At the door, his father held a finger to his lips. “Shhhhhh, now. Don’t wake them.”

He pushed open the door, and Mycroft peered in. There in the center of the pen, curled together peacefully, were Lady Felicity Clover and the Duchess of Fernanda. Sandwiched between them, snoring, was Sir Kendrick Tilden.

His father pulled the door closed again, and faced his son, eyebrows raised.

“But, but…he was…his attentions were…they were exhausted!” Mycroft hissed.

“Son,” his father said, amused, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned about women, of any species, it’s that they know how to handle their men. Leave ‘em be, will you? You can’t control everything. Especially not love. Even of the canine variety.” His father led him gently back toward the kitchen. “Come on, I’ll make you that cup of tea. Get you some biscuits. You've had a hard night. Disappointing, I know.” He patted his eldest on the back. “But just think. We’ve got Sherlock all sorted now. You can relax. Enjoy your wife and your…dogs.”

Mycroft sat at the kitchen table, and let his father prepare him a cup of tea. This was placed before him, fixed just as he liked, along with a plate of biscuits.

“Do you think Sherlock will be alright, Father?” Mycroft asked. “Do you really think he’s…husband material?”

Mr. Holmes huffed out a laugh at that. “Well, son, I didn’t think YOU were husband material, but here you are. Married. Puppies on the way. You’re doing alright. Why shouldn’t Sherlock?”

Mycroft nodded. He sipped his tea. Had a biscuit. “Will he still need me, do you think?” Mycroft asked finally.

“Ahhhhhhh,” his father said, smiling. “So that’s it, is it?”

Mycroft looked into this tea, avoiding his father’s gaze, and shrugged.

“Mikey…no matter what, you’re always going to be his big brother. He’ll always need you. But, he’s a grown man now, yeah? You can’t protect him from everything. He’s got to find his own way.”

Mycroft nodded.

“And if we’re very lucky, you might get to be an uncle someday soon, and me and your Mum grandparents.” 

Mycroft’s head popped up. “Children? It’s a bit early to be thinking about that, isn’t it?”

“Never too early to be hopeful,” his father said. “Though, Sherlock…you know him. He might be a bit shy of the idea. Might need some encouragement. Support.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, with a faraway look in his eye. “That’s very true. Sherlock’s is rather resistant to taking on responsibility, isn’t he? And I’m sure Dr. Hooper is quite counting on children. You’ve seen how she dotes on Rosamund Watson. It would be very selfish to deny her that, wouldn’t it. Hmmmm. Well. I’ll just have to encourage him, won’t I? Lead him in the right direction. A little…nudge, perhaps?”

Mr. Holmes opened his mouth to speak.

Mycroft held up a hand. “Gently, father, I assure you. I always keep my cards close to the vest.”

“Well,” Mr. Holmes said, hiding a smile, “If you think that’s the right thing to do, Mike. You know best, of course.”

********************

Timothy and Wanda Holmes’ house

Molly Hooper lounged on a very comfortable sofa, in front of a fire, at Sherlock’s childhood home.

Sherlock and Molly had decided to take advantage of the quiet house after all, since his parents would be staying in town for the night. They also wanted to avoid, if possible, any bursting in upon them by Mrs. Hudson, who they knew would find it an overwhelming temptation. As much as they both loved her, tonight they wanted to be alone. 

And speaking of Mrs. Hudson, to Molly’s delight, that lady was absolutely right about car shagging! And the tips she had given her weren’t exactly rubbish either. Though Molly did not keep her hand over Sherlock’s mouth, and he had talked and talked and talked, until Molly thought she was going to die of pleasure.

But right now, all was peace. Molly’s eyes were closed, listening to the beautiful violin concerto that Sherlock and his sister had composed for the occasion of their engagement. Every so often, she’d open one eye to peek at Sherlock as he played. As he was completely naked, back turned toward her, silhouetted in firelight, this was a sight too gorgeous to miss, and she finally gave up, opened both eyes, and simply enjoyed the view, along with the music. It was a view she hoped she would still be enjoying after forty-seven years of marriage. Mrs. Holmes had been quite right. She was a lucky girl.

The concerto came to an end, on a sweet, high note, that Molly felt directly in her heart. Sherlock held it, and the violin aloft, until the last sound was only a memory. Then, he turned to her, and held the bow out, like a knight presenting his lady with a token. He grinned at the sight of Molly, half wrapped in a blanket, curled up on the sofa. “The ring was supposed to be on the end,” he said.

“Ah!” Molly said, applauding. “Very romantic!”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. He moved to put the violin and bow down, and came to Molly. “Budge up,” he instructed.

Molly made room for him to join her on the sofa, opening the blanket, and inviting him to share. Sherlock took full advantage of this, grabbing Molly, and placing her on his lap, wrapping them both in a cocoon. “Like larvae,” Molly thought, with a smile. “Thank you,” she said, tilting her head back on Sherlock’s shoulder to look up at him. “That was most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

Sherlock kissed her upturned lips, pleased. “The most beautiful thing, for the most beautiful woman,” he said softly.

Molly snorted as this. 

“Dr. Brad seemed to think so,” said Sherlock venomously. “The smiling sod.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Sherlock, I agreed to marry you after you gave me a ring that was pulled from a poopy nappy. While you were wearing a frock! Do you really think, at this point, you need to worry about the competition?”

There was a pause.

“It was a crap proposal, wasn’t it?” he said, and they both burst out laughing.

When they finally sobered, Sherlock asked seriously, “were you terribly disappointed, Molly Hooper? Even I realize that you didn’t get quite the romantic proposal you deserved.”

Molly turned on his lap, straddling him, her arms going around his neck. She looked into his wary eyes, trying to think of how to say what she wanted to. “First of all,” she started, looking into his eyes, “it was perfect. It was perfectly…us, and I wouldn’t change a thing. Secondly… “ she said softly, “I did have the kind of romantic proposal you’re speaking of once before, you know.” She felt him stiffen beneath her, and tightened her grip on him. “Wait! Let me finish,” she said firmly. His eyes were stormy now, but he kept silent. “I did have that kind of proposal before, but…it was from the wrong man. I said yes to Tom…oh I can’t believe I’m admitting this, it makes me sound so awful…but, I said yes to Tom because….because I knew I’d never have what I really wanted.” She reached up and kissed him, softly. When she pulled away, she saw his eyes were calmer. “What I really wanted was always…you. So, Sherlock, it honestly wouldn’t have mattered where or when or how you asked me. The answer would have always been the same, you see?”

“So what your telling me,” Sherlock said, pulling her even closer, “is that I could have just invited you over, sat you down on my sofa and gotten down on one knee, and it would have been…”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Molly replied, smiling. “Your sofa, The London Sewage Treatment Facility, The Larvae Exhibition at the Museum of Natural History, the lion’s cage at the London Zoo, or in a swamp, covered with leeches, it would have always been…yes.”

Sherlock huffed, and squeezed her waist. “I could have saved myself a lot of anxiety and humiliation if I’d known THAT a month ago.”

“Always the hard way, Mr. Holmes.” Molly agreed.

“Speaking of hard,” Sherlock began, “I do admit to feeling a bit…aroused.”

Molly raised her brows. “Bawdy?”

Sherlock: “Carnal.”

Molly: “Desirous.”

Sherlock: “Erotic.”

Molly: “Filthy.”

Sherlock: Greedy.”

Molly bit his earlobe, “Hot.”

Sherlock stood suddenly, with Molly in his arms, and quickly completed: “indecent, jazzed, keen, lustful, macho, nasty, obscene, prurient, quickened, randy, salacious, tumescent, unchaste, vulgar, wanton, X-rated, yearning and zazzled!”

“Sherlock Holmes!” she cried laughing, wrapping her arms and legs around him, completely losing the blanket. “Greg Lestrade has been a terrible influence on you!”

Sherlock only grinned, and began walking toward the stairs.

“Just wait! Tomorrow, I have another treat for you, Molly. We can start going over my Matrimonial Organizational Chart. You’ll be very pleased!”


	12. Encore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly come to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it for this time around! A little coda. I have a few ideas for continuing on, as you will see. I'm working things out in my frazzled brain.
> 
> Thank you all so much for following along with me in this little universe. It's been so much fun! Thanks for laughing with me at all these silly antics! And thank you for your lovely, funny, encouraging comments. You folks are the best!
> 
> For the last time, this time, all I own are the mistakes.

One Month Later.

221B Baker Street

“Molly!” This one word was shrieked loud enough to raise the dead.

Molly Hooper jolted upright. “Sherlock?!” she yelled, and scrambled out of bed, feet catching in the sheets, causing her to tumble and fall to the floor with a loud thump. She extracted herself in a rush, kicking away the bedclothes, and dashed from Sherlock’s bedroom into the front room of 221B Baker Street.

“Sherlock!” Molly yelled, wheeling around and doing a complete circle. No Sherlock. “Sherlock!” she cried again.

“In here Molly!” came an urgent voice from the kitchen.

Molly rushed toward the kitchen, pushing through the door, and sliding to a stop when she spotted Sherlock sitting calmly at the table, sipping a cup of tea. He was even dunking a biscuit, the great bastard!

“Sherlock!” she exclaimed, panting and holding a hand to her chest. “You scared the life out of me!”

“I made us tea!” Sherlock replied with a huge smile.

Molly gained control over her anxious breathing, and gave herself time to will away the urge to bash the love of her life over his giant, thick head. She looked the clock on the range.

“At three am?” she asked, pushing her messy hair away from her face. 

“Is it that early?” asked Sherlock, looking to the clock, as if to verify this. “Well, in any case, Molly, you’ve slept for over five hours. That’s plenty for a woman of your age and health status. Sit. Have some tea. Unfortunately, I’ve eaten the last biscuit. We’ll have to put that on your list. But for right now, we have something very important to discuss.” Sherlock gestured to the chair, and begin fixing Molly a cup of tea.

Molly sighed. She supposed she was going to have to get used to this. John had warned her after all, and she, herself, wasn’t exactly unused to being woken up in the middle of the night by Sherlock. Lately, of course, it was usually for a shag, which was far preferable to the days when he’d barge into her flat in the middle of the night, and kick her out of her own bed, for no other reason than, “I have to think, and your bedroom is more restful and conducive to thought this evening. Plus you have biscuits.” 

Molly sat. 

Sherlock slid her cup of tea over to her. She took a fortifying sip before asking, “What’s so important?”

“Our wedding of course!” Sherlock exclaimed, as if it were perfectly reasonable for him to wake her in the middle of the night for this discussion, rather than having it say, over breakfast, in five or six hours!

“Our wedding?” Molly asked.

“Of course! Now that my Matrimonial Organization Chart is complete, we must move on to phase two. The wedding! We’ll never get to utilize the chart if we don’t actually get married, you know!” 

Sherlock nudged her with his elbow and winked. Molly pictured throwing her teacup at him, and hitting him off the forehead. This made her feel a bit better.

“MmmmHmmm” she answered, taking another sip of tea. Sherlock’s Matrimonial Organizational Chart (or MOC for short) was rather a sore spot. Actually, it was more than that. It was completely mad! The MOC took up an entire section of the front room of 221B. On one side of the wall hung a photo of Molly, on the other side a photo of Sherlock, and underneath a vast array of charts, graphs and lists all tacked up in what seemed to be a totally random fashion. It resembled one of Sherlock’s crime boards, only more frightening. It was very…extensive.

At first, when Sherlock had brought up the chart, Molly thought he was teasing her. When she realized he wasn’t joking, she thought it was simply some sort of stress reaction. But, it turned out, he was quite serious! And the categories! Completely demented!

Some of this had been explained to Molly by John, who had been invited up to 221B one afternoon, when Sherlock was out buying more graph paper, to show him the chart. 

John had confessed that he was already intimately familiar with the MOC, as Sherlock had taken to going over it with he, Greg and Mycroft, at their regular pub night, after bowling. At first, John too had thought that Sherlock was simply taking the piss, and, unfortunately, he had Greg had started suggesting absurd categories for Sherlock to add to the chart. It wasn’t until they noticed that Mycroft was glaring at them, and running a finger across his throat in the classic pantomime of “leave off!” that they had realized Sherlock was completely serious. 

Some of the categories John and Greg had suggested were “Laundry Organization,” “Loo and Cat Box Maintenance,” “Personal Grooming” and “Social Niceties.” And, unfortunately, before Mycroft had intervened, Greg had also suggested that Sherlock make out a schedule for regular sexual intercourse, to be sure that he was getting the proper amount of “seeing to,” as Greg had found this a problem in his own marriage. “And make sure she’s signs the contract, Sherlock!” Greg had said, as Sherlock began to pencil out a schedule for their intimate activities, “then there won’t be any of that, I’ve got a headache, or I’m not in the mood. And I think you should really include your preferred positions.” 

John had, of course, felt terribly guilty about this, and apologized profusely. But the damage was already done. “Whatever you do, Molly,” he said, “don’t sign anything! And try your best to discourage him from doing another diorama, the last one was rubbish.”

And now, whenever Molly asked Sherlock any kind of question about their future life together, he simply told her to refer to the chart. When she asked him about his finances, he pointed to the wall and said, “John takes care of all that!’” All there was underneath the “Finances” section was a piece of paper with a huge circle drawn on it. The circle was filled in with a frowny face, with a few tufts of hair sticking up on top. “Is that supposed to be me?” John had exclaimed when he saw it.

When she tried to talked to Sherlock about the possibility of their having children, he looked at her like she was a bit slow and said it was all covered on the chart. Under “Offspring” was another piece of paper, adorned only with the symbol for Pi. And what the devil did that mean? He wanted 3.14 children? 

Even more bizarre, both John and Greg had been included in the duties and responsibilities of the MOC. John was to be "proxy" for both “Quarrels and Complaints” and “Grievances,” in case Sherlock had to be absent during one of these episodes due to a case, or “if it’s too boring, John.” Greg was asked to be "back-up" for “Sulking,” since Sherlock had decided that, as a natural actor, Greg could pull off the best “mopey face.” Mycroft was not assigned a category, since Sherlock proclaimed him “far too nosey by half!” Sherlock had been considering asking Mrs. Hudson to sign on in advisory capacity for “Affection” and “Intercourse,” ever since Molly had confessed to him the tips she had provided, prior to the episode in the car on the way to his parents’ house the night of their engagement, but since Mrs. Hudson tended to be very hands on on her advice, he was still thinking on this, and Molly was doing her best to dissuade him.

The worst part was, Sherlock kept accusing her of coming in and re-arranging things. “You really must stop being so difficult, Molly!” Molly tried to tell him that it was probably Mrs. Hudson, having a laugh. “Who else knows all the names for those…positions.” But Sherlock was convinced Molly was trying to “mess about with my system.” Though he also said that he had Googled the “passion propeller,” and would be amenable to giving it a go.

John’s advice to her had been simple. “I think you should just ignore it.”

Molly had pointed out that it was hard to ignore something that took over half the front room of Sherlock’s flat, but John was emphatic.

“The charts, the graphs, everything, Mols. Just ignore it. Pretend it doesn’t exist. Go ahead and plan the wedding you want, and let Sherlock play about with this barmy business. It will keep him occupied and out of your hair.”

“But don’t you think I should be concerned?” Molly had asked. “It’s so…deranged!”

“I think this is Sherlock being Sherlock,” John said firmly. “This is what he always does. He takes something simple and twists it up into some great mess, and then gets himself in trouble trying to get out of it. He’s concentrating on all this minutiae because he’s afraid, Molly. I think you should just leave him to it, and let him work it out in his own way, in his own time.”

“What could he possibly be afraid of John? I’ve already said yes!” Molly pointed out.

“That’s just it," John returned. “You actually said yes. And now he’s going to be your husband, and maybe the father of your children. He’s probably terrified that he’ll disappoint you, so he’s focusing all his attention on that stupid chart, trying to make sure everything turns out perfectly! He did the same, exact thing planning that Romantic date for you, remember? And I have four other words for your consideration…Taming of the Shrew!”

Those four words had sent a chill down Molly’s spine. So, she had taken John’s advice, and for the past four weeks she had tried to pretend that the great elephant in the room didn’t exist. Whenever Sherlock made a suggestion, or referenced the MOC in any way, she simply replied, “yes, dear,” and crossed her fingers that once they were safely married, and Sherlock settled in and saw how happy she was, and how (hopefully) happy he was, he’d calm down, and things would come right. 

So, now here they were, at “phase two.” Finally. Apparently, without her knowledge and with very little input from her, Molly’s marriage had been organized and arranged to Sherlock’s satisfaction. Secretly, Molly was dreading “phase two.” Just a bit. But, on the other hand, she was eagerly anticipating “phase three,” which she dearly hoped was a honeymoon with just the two of them somewhere warm and sunny, with no charts, graphs or lists of any kind. And, hopefully, very little clothing. Wanda Holmes, in fact, had suggested a quiet little village in the South of France, that sounded like just the thing, though Sherlock seemed less than thrilled by the prospect. 

But first things first.

“So, Sherlock,” Molly began tentatively, “do you have some particular idea about the wedding?” Please god, don’t let there be a powerpoint!

“I confess, I do, Molly.” Sherlock said, smiling. “But first, I want to ask you something.”

Molly smiled back at him. “I already said yes.”

Sherlock slid his chair closer to hers, and bent down to kiss her sweetly. “Yes, you did. Have I thanked you for that?” 

“Mmmmmmmmm,” Molly replied, snuggling him a bit. “Yes, you have. In several very enthusiastic ways.” She leaned over to kiss him again. He allowed it briefly, before pulling back. 

“Don’t distract me! I had a question.” He scolded.

“Oh yes, sorry.” Molly gave him a mock chastened look. “Ask away, Mr. Holmes.”

“Has Mrs. Hudson been trying to interfere? Has she been pressuring you in any way?” asked Sherlock with a probing look.

“Oh…she hasn’t been too bad, Sherlock, really. Not interfering. Not so far. Right now she’s just…sending me books.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this. “Books?”

Molly cringed. “Sex books. So far I have Masters & Johnson, Kinsey, The Guide to Getting it On, She Comes First, The Kama Sutra and Fifty Shades of Grey. My postman’s stopped looking me in the eye.”

Sherlock sighed.

“She means well, Sherlock.” 

“And Mycroft?” he asked, tightly.

“Weeellllll…” Molly started.

“Molly!” Sherlock exclaimed.

“He’s been texting me every day.” Molly admitted. “Sending me pictures of dresses, flowers, favors, prospective guest lists and possible seating charts.” 

“I see.” Sherlock responded.

“They’re just very excited, Sherlock. Happy for us. And it’s rather…sweet…in an irritating, aggravating sort of way…so…”

“I want to elope.” Sherlock announced.

“What?!” Molly exclaimed.

“Elope.” Sherlock repeated. “I know you probably want a big wedding, like John and Mary had, with a dress and origami napkins, I do wonderful swans by the way, and of course you deserve to have everything you want, Molly. It’s just that I know Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson, and if they’re involved in any way, there’s bound to be a disaster of epic proportion, so…I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but…”

“Yes!” Molly cried, jumping up from her chair.

“Yes?” Sherlock said, taken aback.

Molly threw herself on Sherlock, climbing into his lap and wrapping her arms and legs around him. “Yes. Yes. Yes! Oh, please, yes! Let’s go away, just the two of us! Can we go tomorrow?” She began kissing him, all over his face, and Sherlock burst into laughter.

“I thought I’d have to talk you into it.” he said, still laughing.

Molly pulled back from kissing his face, to look into his eyes. “After the past few months? Oh, Sherlock! All I want is for us to be married. The idea of all the fuss and drama of a big wedding? I confess, I was dreading it!” She framed his face with her hands. “Let’s just go get married. We can have a party for all our friends and family after we get back, alright?”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s what I want too.” He kissed her soundly. 

He pushed her off his lap and stood up, wrapping his long arms around her, and squeezing her tightly. “But you know what this means, Molly?” he asked.

Molly pulled back, and looked up into his beautiful eyes, which were twinkling with delight. “What?”

“We are going to have to be very, very…artful,” Sherlock said with an amused grin.

“Bent,” Molly agreed, nodding.

Sherlock: “Conniving.”

Molly: “Deceptive.”

Sherlock: “Evasive.”

Molly: “Fallacious.”

Sherlock: “Guileful”

Molly: “Hush-Hush.”

Sherlock: “Illicit.”

Molly: “Justificatory.”

Sherlock: “Knavish.”

Molly: “Lying.”

Sherlock: “Machiavellian.”

Molly: “Nefarious.”

Sherlock: “Oblique.”

Molly: “Perfidious.”

Sherlock: “Quiet.”

Molly: “Roundabout.”

Sherlock: “Scheming.”

Molly: “Tricky.”

Sherlock: “Underhanded”

Molly: “Veiled.”

Sherlock: “Wily.”

Molly: “Xyresic.”

Sherlock: “Yellow.”

Molly: “Zig-Zag.”

“God I love you!” Sherlock proclaimed. He bent, and put his shoulder to her belly, then stood, Molly hanging over his shoulder, bottom in the air.

“Sherlock!” Molly cried. “What has gotten into you?!”

Sherlock slapped her smartly on the behind, and began making his way through the flat. “Molly, it’s past time to try out the passion propellor! If you’d only look, it’s all right there on the chart!”

He carried her into the bedroom, and slammed the door behind them.

********************

At the same time.

221A Baker Street.

Martha Hudson sat, in her nightwear, at her kitchen table, cold cup of tea before her, staring into space. Her face was troubled. “Well, I like that!” she announced to the empty room. “I mean really! After everything I’ve done.”

She reached up, and popped the listening device from her ear, and dropped it into her cleavage.

“What to do? What to do?” She put both elbows on the table, hands to her cheeks, and thought. 

After a few moments, she shrugged. “Well, needs must,” she said philosophically. She took up her phone, which was sitting beside her on the table, and dialed a number.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. 

“Do you know what time it is?” came the angry voice at the other end of the line. “Someone had better be dying!”

Mrs. Hudson made a tsking sound at this. “Of course I know what time it is! There’s nothing wrong with eyesight. Except for the bifocals, but that’s for reading. I can see a clock clear as day. It’s an emergency, of course! What do you take me for?” She could hear the person on the other end of phone sighing, and what sounded to her like several dogs barking.

“Well, since you’ve now woken up the entire household…what is it? What is this great emergency that couldn’t have waited until a decent hour? My bitches are about to give birth, you know! It’s a very anxious time.”

“It’s more anxious than you know,” responded Mrs. Hudson. She paused dramatically for effect. “They’re planning on eloping.”

The screeched “What!” from the other end of the line was so loud, that Mrs. Hudson had to hold the phone away from her ear for a moment, to avoid being deafened.

“Eeeelooooping,” she drew out the word.

“Well, I like that!” was the response. “After everything I’ve done.”

“So,” Mrs. Hudson began, “what are we going to do about it?”

There was a long pause. “We?”

“Yes of course we!” Mrs. Hudson snapped. “It’s time we put our heads together, my good fellow. We’ve been working at cross purposes for far too long. It’s time to bury the hatchet and work as a team. It’s the only way to guarantee success.”

“But…but…” stuttered the voice at the other end.

“Need I remind you, Mycroft Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson said, “that you owe me one?”

 

THE END


End file.
